


Dream A Little Dream Of Me

by holeybubushka



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: And Lots of It, Begging, Boss/Employee Relationship, Dirty Talk, F/F, Fantasy, Impact Play, Lesbian Sex, Longing, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Please Forgive me, Praise Kink, Raelle is just very happy to be here folks, Riding Crops, Rough Sex, Scylla is the eccentric lady of the manor, Spanking, Strap-Ons, Top Scylla Ramshorn, Vaginal Fingering, and Raelle is her farmhand, as for the rest of the tags, boss to lovers au, but at its heart this is a love story, domme Scylla Ramshorn, farm wives, farmhand au, hoo boy, using riding crops in a sexy way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 43,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28327041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holeybubushka/pseuds/holeybubushka
Summary: Raelle just wants a summer of rest and relaxation, away from her troubles as she works on a farm in backend of nowhere. Her boss, however, has other ideasOrFarmwives AU
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 39
Kudos: 258
Collections: MFSRI Winter Solstice Fic Exchange 2020





	1. Farmhand blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesdane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/gifts).



> Written for the MFSRI Solstice Exchange. I didn't mean to write something so gargantuan but inspiration struck and I wanted to do the idea justice. I was first inspired by this picture - https://starrymag.com/amalia-holm-last-days-of-summer/. I needed to write this Scylla, lolling on the grass, completely in her element. And thus, this story was born. Such is the power of one Amalia Holm.
> 
> Written for majesdane, who deserves all the good things. I hope this brings you as much joy reading it as was for me writing it. As for everyone else, Merry Christmas and happy holidays!

It was the oddity of the thing that first struck Raelle.

She never reads the newspaper, why would she; she has a phone. And if she _does_ read the newspaper, it’s the back pages only. So she is not sure why she picked up her father’s discarded paper on a lazy Friday afternoon and turned to the classifieds. Her eyes glaze over as she props her elbows on the dining room table, flicking idly through the pages. She's already impatient for dinner—she's inherited her father's rapacious appetite—when she sees the advertisement. It’s unassuming, shunted almost apologetically at the bottom of the third page of classifieds.

_Female-only farmhand wanted_

***

"Abigail, I know what you’re going to say."

"How? Didn’t know you died and came back as Nostradamus."

"Because," Raelle rolls her eyes, loading the last of her bags into Bertie, otherwise known as her weathered pickup. "You’ve already told me I’m insane for taking this job."

"Insane? Oh, we’re way past that. We’re onto full blown delusion now. You want to spend your summer talking to a bunch of chickens."

"Abi, leave it, she wants to go," Tally sighs, shivering a little. Her knuckles are almost white as she grips her coffee cup. Despite living in New England for the last four years, Tally's a Californian at heart; she’s never quite adjusted to the cold. If Raelle didn’t have such a long drive ahead of her and Bertie’s air conditioner wasn’t on the blink, she’d give Tally her jacket.

"What? I’m just being a good friend, Tal. Raelle, there is no internet access. No phone reception. You’re going to work on a _farm._ Eleven hours away. For some old lady who probably knits." Abigail pokes Raelle’s sternum a shade harder than strictly necessary. "If you come back with a crochet addiction, I will never forgive you."

"Got it. No needle-work of any kind."

"And what sort of name is Scylla, anyway? Scylla Ramshorn. It sounds fake." Abigail snorts.

"It’s pretty. Scylla, I mean. I think it’s Greek," Tally says thoughtfully.

"It’s stupid, I think you mean."

" _Abigail_."

"Guys, it’s fine," Raelle insists. She can’t stand bickering this early in the morning. "I wouldn’t have signed up if I didn’t know what I’m getting myself into. It’s just going to be three months, on a nice farm, with a nice old lady, no distractions, no drama, just nature."

"I’m still hung up on the no internet thing."

"And," Raelle says, ignoring Abigail. "If I hate it, you can totally say I told you so."

"Well then," Abigail says, lifting her chin in that haughty way of hers. She’s feigning magnanimity, but Raelle can see the beginnings of the telltale Bellweather smirk. "In that case, you can leave with my blessing."

"Have fun," Tally hugs Raelle tightly. "It’s going to be so relaxing. Ooooh, you’re going to see so many beautiful animals! And, your dad says it’s really picturesque out there."

"Yeah, it is," Raelle says wistfully. She squeezes Tally harder, trying to shake off the memories. "Hey Tal? I’m going to miss you."

"I’m going to miss you, too. But you’re going to have so much fun, I just know it." Tally gestures towards Abigail. "C’mon, get in here."

"Fine, _fine_ ," Abigail wraps her long arms around them both. "Have fun, shitbird. Please don’t come back boring. And if you need us to bail you out—"

"I can’t actually call you, there’s no reception—"

"We’ll come get you in a second," Abigail finishes. 

"Thanks, dorks. See you in a few months." Raelle laughs, slinging her knapsack over her shoulder. She glances to her right, stomach clenching when she sees her father, hands shoved in his pockets and a hangdog look on his face.

"Dad," she says, approaching him.

"Hey kid," he hands her a piping hot flask. "Coffee. It’s a long drive. You got your layovers sorted?"

"Staying in Wilmington and Richmond."

"Yeah? Well, you’re all done then."

"Dad," Raelle says. She can’t help herself from fiddling with her mother’s ring. "I don’t have to go, I can stay and help you at the shop, I know it can be busy over summer, and -"

"I’ll be fine. You just worry about enjoying yourself. Maybe stretch your legs out some."

"Are you sure?" She hesitates, swallowing hard. "I know we’ve been here for a while, but… You ever miss it?"

"Hyde County? Naw. This is home now. And you know." Her dad clears his throat. "Your momma is here, and home to me is always where your momma is." His expression lifts. "Don’t you let that stop you, though. It’s about time you spread your wings and get on out there."

"Thanks, Dad," she pulls him into a fierce hug, nuzzling the crook of his neck and breathing him in. He smells of soap and cigars and something else, something she can’t place but is indescribably _him_.

More than anything, he smells like home.

"I’ll send letters. Every week."

"And I’ll read every single one of them." He pulls out of the embrace, clapping her on the shoulder. "You better get on the road. You and Bert have a long drive ahead of you."

"Hey, don’t you be casting doubt on Bertie. He’s never let me down." Her smile fades. She takes her dad’s hand and squeezes. "Bye Dad."

"Bye, Rae. Catch you at the end of summer."

***

Raelle has a reputation for recklessness. It’s deserved; she’s got into more scraps than she can count and a few tight brushes with the law. But she’s not actually stupid; she checked the ad out before applying. She sent her resume, such as it was, to the email provided and was promptly contacted by a woman named Anacostia Quartermaine. 

In the Zoom call that followed, Quartermaine confirmed she was acting on behalf of the Ramshorn estate. She outlined the job in the clipped manner of a disapproving drill sergeant, and Raelle almost gave the whole thing up there and then. Raelle chafes at authority at the best of times, but overbearing know-it-alls are the worst. And if Ramshorn is anything like Quartermaine, then she won’t last twelve minutes, let alone twelve weeks.

But. The horses. A small stable of five former racehorses saved from the glue factory. Raelle grew up with horses, and truthfully, she likes them better than most people. Horses, even the rowdy ones, are definitely easier to deal with and anyone who will rescue the discarded and broken ones can’t be all bad.

She’s driving on the outskirts of Lake Norman State Park when she hears an ominous bang. Bertie starts to creak, steering wheel wobbling like a bomb went off. Raelle curses, pulling over to the side of the road. Her stomach sinks like a stone. She knows that sound. One of her tires must have blown.

Raelle gets out, her scuffed boots crunching loudly on the dirt. As she suspected, her right back tire has a nasty gash down its side. 

"Cool," Raelle groans, running a hand through her hair. After two days of travel it feels greasy but she supposes there’s no point getting precious about it getting even dirtier. She gets the spare wheel out from Bertie’s trunk, pausing to consider her surroundings. It’s noon, and the sun is beating down harshly on the wide, deserted, dirt road. 

It is deathly quiet. Raelle can’t hear anything except her own breath; no birds or any other critters beside the distant buzzing of cicadas. Overhead, huge oak trees loom all around her, proud and rigid and still.

"Great," Raelle mutters to herself. "Guess this is the part where the inbred hillbillies appear."

She gets to work on changing the wheel. She doesn’t exactly want to linger; the place gives her the creeps, and she’s been traveling for so long she’s eager to finally reach the Ramshorn residence and wash off what feels like two days’ worth of grime. 

But once she’s changed her wheel, she can’t help but check the bottom of the truck; whatever she ran over was sharp enough to rip through her tire, and it would be just her luck if it caused more lasting damage.

She’s on her back, checking a screw on the underside of her car when she hears the crunch of tires on gravel.

"Need any help?" The voice is deep, but feminine. A woman’s voice.

Any help? Raelle rolls her eyes. Normally women know better than to assume she’s a novice; she’s only been messing around in her dad’s shop since she was ten.

"I’m fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes," Raelle sighs, wiggling out from under Bertie. "This isn’t my first…"

Raelle’s breath catches in her throat. A woman, not much older than Raelle, is looking down quizzically at her from the driver’s side of a fully restored, sleek, cream 1974 Chevrolet Monte Carlo.

The car is beautiful. But its occupant is _mesmerizing_.

Her hair is the color of polished pine and sits just past her shoulders in a windswept wave. She has a sharp, chiseled jaw, with a cute button nose and delicate looking lips. 

Those lips are curved into a smile as she looks at Raelle, sprawled and sweaty, on the ground. Despite the heat, the stranger's skin is pale except for a faint, pink blush on her cheeks that only seem to bring out…

Those _eyes_.

"Uh," Raelle scrambles to her feet, rubbing her oil-slicked hands on her overalls. "Hello. Thanks. About the car. But I’m fine."

"That you are," the stranger says, slowly licking her lips.

 _Oh._ The tips of Raelle’s ears burn. Okay. Raelle is not the sharpest tool in the shed but she knows girls; and she definitely knows when one is flirting with her. 

She’s momentarily caught off guard; it’s no coincidence Raelle chose an isolated farm with nothing but horses and a quaint old lady to keep her company. She wanted, for one summer at least, to be completely alone.

She's spent the last few years surrounded by people and frankly, she's sick of it. Especially girls her age. When it comes to women, she’s so damn tired. She’s tired of one-night stands. She’s tired of pretty girls with ugly hearts. More than anything, Raelle is tired of herself; tired of trying to find a connection that never seems to be there.

Then again… maybe she shouldn’t be so dramatic. Since when did a little flirting harm anyone?

"Well," Raelle drawls, taking the bait. She ambles towards the car. The girl is prettier the closer she gets, and Raelle tries not to get too distracted by the most piercing blue eyes she has ever seen. Raelle puts her hand on the bonnet of the stranger’s car, leaning in so close she gets a whiff of her perfume. "Beautiful." She waits a beat. "And the car is nice too. 1974 Chevrolet Monte Carlo. It's in pristine condition, too."

"Thanks. I take care of what’s mine." The stranger cocks a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "You know your cars. Are you a mechanic?"

"Why?" Raelle grins cheekily. "You want me to look under the hood?"

"Aren’t you delightful," she laughs. "But seriously, you must be new. I would have noticed you around if you weren’t. Are you commuting to Charlotte?"

"No, I’m actually staying around here. I’ve got some work with some little old lady nearby, at the, uh… Ramshorn residence? You heard of it?"

"You answered the farmhand ad?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Oh," the stranger looks utterly thrilled. "No reason."

"Okaaay," Raelle says, feeling a little thrown. There’s something almost devilish in the girl’s eyes, a gleeful expression that makes a tingle run down Raelle’s spine.

 _Fuck_. Raelle swallows hard. She doesn’t need her body betraying her right now. The girl is… stunning. And if this was any other time, any other place, Raelle would be doing everything she can to coax her into Bertie’s back seat.

Raelle hopes she isn’t a cousin or something of the Ramshorn woman. The stranger did oddly perk up when Raelle mentioned the farmhand job. If she is related to her boss, that would make Raelle’s plans of a summer full of rest and relaxation a little trickier. Raelle could stop herself, of course, she isn’t an animal, but if she could help it she’d prefer not to be constantly tempted.

Then again, it’s probably just a coincidence, Raelle thinks, clearing her throat. She should stop being so paranoid. And what’s the harm in a little flirtation, a little kissing, maybe even a little...

"I should go," the girl says, turning her keys in the ignition. "Since you don’t need me to sort out your car troubles. But I’m sure I’ll see you around."

"Okay," Raelle frowns, stepping back. She feels a little thrown, although she's not sure why. "Actually, wait! Wait! You haven’t told me your name yet, beautiful."

"Ask around," the stranger calls back, winking as she drives off in a haze of dust and exhaust. "You’ll find out who I am."

 _Shit_ , Raelle thinks as she watches the car drive off into the distance. Shit, shit _shit_.

Maybe it won’t be such a relaxing summer after all.

***

It takes another forty minutes to get to the Ramshorn residence. 

The countryside is a labyrinth of unnamed roads and dead ends. Not only that, but the further she drives out, the more unreliable her internet access becomes.

She would stop and ask someone, but the place is deserted. But all that effort is worth it once she stumbles upon her destination.

"Holy hell," Raelle gapes.

The first thing she notices is the driveway. It’s long and straight, like a gargantuan gravel welcome mat. The driveway is lined on both sides by giant oak trees, bent over at the root so the tips of the branches are touching one another, like interlocking fingers. The canopy is so thick it almost blots out the sun, allowing Raelle to marvel at the trees that are adorned by creeping Spanish moss.

"We’re not in Boston anymore, Bert," she mutters, patting Bertie on the dashboard. She can’t help but feel a little out of place, with her dirt smeared overalls and rickety old pickup. But if the driveway is grand, it’s got nothing on the house at the end of it.

The manor is unabashed in its genteel grandeur; it’s the color of pearls, with its six outwardly facing windows framed by dark blue shutters. The house itself is only two stories but somehow looks bigger; Raelle thinks it has something to do with the four white Romanesque columns that are holding up the triangular, stately looking roof. 

It’s like something out of a fairy-tale, or one of those books about southern houses her mother would casually lay out on the coffee table whenever guests arrived. She tries to ignore the pang in her chest when she thinks of how awed and excited her mother would be, if she were here right now, looking up at the Ramshorn residence.

From her angle from inside the car, Raelle can spot a double doorway on the second floor that leads out to a grand, circular balcony overlooking the entire property. The doors are closed, but they probably lead to the master bedroom, but Raelle can’t see any sign of Mrs. Ramshorn anywhere.

"Cool," Raelle sighs, bringing Bertie to a stop near the front door. "Let’s do this thing."

She feels a little awkward parking her pickup, with its flecked blue paint and half a dozen dings, in the driveway. She half expects a disapproving valet to come out and offer to hide Bertie somewhere near the stables. But there isn’t anyone here; no other cars, no other sounds, and as Raelle peers through the open windows, she can’t see any movements from within the house.

"So, no hillbillies, but this place is definitely haunted. Definite spooky shit afoot." Raelle sighs, opening the door and getting out. 

"Wish me luck, Bert."

Her back, right between the shoulder blades, aches and her butt is still sore from sitting for eleven hours. She grabs her bags from the back of her pickup and makes away across the gravel, trying not to gawk too much.

"Hello?" She knocks on the wooden door. "Hello?"

No answer. 

She wiggles the ornate brown handle. To her surprise, the door is unlocked. 

The Manor’s entryway is a large, cavernous room, old-fashioned in the best kind of way: vintage but well-kept. The hall is dimly lit by half-a-dozen antique looking gold and moss-green lamps. The floorboards are a rich, dark wood color—older than Raelle twice over—that groan underneath her boots. The place isn't cluttered, in fact there aren't surfaces for Raelle to dump her stuff at all, except a small, round side table with a porcelain vase with freshly cut, white lilies in it. 

"Not bad," Raelle murmurs appreciably. She gently rests her bags on a thick Persian rug underneath her feet and has a proper look around at the place she'll be calling home for the next three months. 

She expected the residence to have that slightly sour, old people smell, but when she breathes in, she can almost taste the faint tang of citrus. There’s a hat stand to her left, and on it someone has hung a couple of pretty, pink blouses on it. 

Raelle chews her lip. Someone lives here. It’s just that someone is nowhere to be found. 

"Hello?" She says again. Her words seem to bounce off the high ceilings. "Hello? Mrs. Ramshorn? Helloooo?" 

"Hello, Raelle."

Raelle’s head snaps back in front of her, where a small woman is slowly walking down the large, central staircase, clad in riding gear. The woman's brown jodhpurs cling tightly to her legs as she walks while her black riding jacket is buttoned up smartly. The shirt underneath her jacket is white and fancy, satin if Raelle had to guess, and done up in an elegant bow. 

The outfit, replete with a cute black helmet, is gorgeous but what Raelle really notices are those _eyes…_

Those very familiar eyes. 

"S—sorry," Raelle gapes, her heart thudding hard in her chest. She can't believe it. It’s the stunning stranger from earlier today, nonchalantly strolling down the staircase like she owns the joint. "Hi. Again. Sorry, um. I’m looking for Mrs. Ramshorn."

The stranger smiles like a cat with a whole tub of cream. "Don’t call me that. Mrs. Ramshorn was my mother."

Raelle stares. She knows she should say something, but her mouth feels full of sand. She isn't a moron; but the woman's words and their implications don’t quite penetrate the fog in her brain. So she stands there, gawking up at the stranger who looks more smug with each passing second.

"I’m sorry," the woman says, descending the final few flights of stairs with a feline grace. She holds out a dark, leathered gloved hand. "How rude of me, I should have introduced myself. My name is Scylla. Scylla Ramshorn."

"Raelle," she says weakly, taking Scylla’s hand. "Raelle Collar."

"I know, Raelle Collar. We’ve met." Her smile is almost predatory as she holds Raelle’s gaze for a fraction too long. "I’m sure you remember." 

_Shit_. "I’m sorry," Raelle says, her face burning. "I had no idea you were you… because the ad said…"

Raelle trails off. While the advertisement mentioned the lack of a television and spotty internet and phone access, it didn’t disclose any information about the lady of the house. In fact, neither did Quartermaine during the interview. Raelle didn’t ask because she assumed no one even close to her age would voluntarily live like this.

"I know what you thought," the other woman is amused. It’s only then Raelle notices she is holding a long, thin riding crop in her left hand. "What was it that you said? You were hired as the farmhand for a little old lady." She grins. Her teeth are distractingly white. "I am little, I suppose, but not so old."

"I’m sorry. Really. I want you to know I am very professional. I have a resume here… somewhere. And I’m good with horses. And animals. In general."

"I don’t doubt that. Anacostia told me she’d found someone right for the role, and I have to say, she has outdone herself." The woman indicates to Raelle’s bags. "Let me show you to your room. I know you’ve had a long drive that wasn’t… without car trouble."

Scylla takes her up the long staircase. Raelle tries to play it cool, but it’s hard. She doesn’t think she’s been somehow this elegant in her whole life. Even Abigail’s house, while insanely opulent, is gaudy compared to the Ramshorn residence. 

On the top of the flight of stairs is a giant picture of a sleek black horse, standing in front of an idyllic, country background. The portrait is vividly rendered, Raelle can see the fire in its coal-colored eyes.

"Raelle," Scylla—Ms. Ramshorn—calls from the end of the hall. "This way," she gestures, waiting for Raelle to catch up before continuing. "The residence has five bedrooms, but for convenience’s sake I put yours down the hall from mine. Just in case I need a protector in the night. My room is down there—" she points to the end of the hall, in the opposite direction to where they are heading. It’s late afternoon, so the light is dim and Raelle has to squint a little, but when her eyes adjust, she can see two large, ornate wooden doors—which must be the entrance to the master bedroom. 

"There are three bathrooms, the one on this level is here," she gestures to the room next to them. "I get up at six am and I’ll be in my study before seven. If you have anything pressing, please try and talk to me before then." Her voice is clipped. "I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m in my study."

"Sure." Raelle shifts. She hopes her boots aren’t trekking dirt all over the carpet. "When will I meet the animals… Ms... Ramshorn?" 

"You’re so _formal_ , Raelle," Ms. Ramshorn’s tone returns to its normal soft, flirtatious lilt. "So different from this afternoon."

"I really am sorry about that. I want you to know I appreciate the opportunity and I’m ready to get to work."

"Well, I am very glad. I think you and I are going to fit well together." Raelle tries not to shiver as Scylla brushes the tips of her gloved hand against the small of her back. "You look tired. How about we finish the tour tomorrow morning at seven? I don’t want to tire you out so early."

"Thank you." All of a sudden, the fatigue of two solid days' travel hits Raelle like a truck. "I appreciate it. Ma’am."

"You know, you really are delightful," Scylla says, smiling as if almost to herself. "I’m going out for a quick ride, but I’ll see you tomorrow, Raelle. I can’t wait to show you around."

Ms. Ramshorn turns on her heel, striding off with a purpose and without a glance back. It’s late afternoon now, but Raelle supposes there’s enough light left in the day to go horseback riding if someone is keen enough.

Before Raelle can stop herself, her eyes travel down Ms. Ramshorn’s petite frame. Her ass looks incredible in those jodhpurs, and it wouldn’t take much for Raelle to reach out and—

Fuck.

Raelle wrenches open the door to her room, closing it behind her with a solid thud. The room itself is nice enough, if a little sparse—washed out wooden floorboards, mahogany four poster bed, a single rickety desk and an old vanity—but right now Raelle could not give two shits about where she sleeps.

She snatches a Snickers bar from her bag, biting into it hard as she flops down on the mottled red and gold comforter covering the bed. 

Jesus, what the fuck has she stumbled into? 

This wasn’t the plan at all. 

The plan, such as it was, was to disappear for three months. To pass the time peacefully in her own little nook in some no-name town where she can stay out of trouble for once. But now? Looks like trouble has followed her all the way to North Carolina.

God, why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? Flirting with pretty girls has always been Raelle’s weakness. 

But she’s not going to let that get in the way. She has a job to do here. Her parents raised her to be professional and polite. Her personal life may be littered with failed relationships and one-night stands, but she’s always held down a job, save for those few awful months after her mother’s death. She may not have a career, or even a prospect of one outside her dad’s workshop, but Raelle’s a hard worker.

But. How can Scylla have any respect for her at all? Raelle practically propositioned her in the middle of some dusty road. She was _this_ _close_ to laying on the charm, coaxing Scylla into Bertie’s backseat for a quick and dirty fuck. And the worst thing is, they _both_ know it. How the hell can Raelle come back from that?

Well. Raelle finishes the Snickers bar, throwing the wrapper in the trash and squaring her shoulders. The first thing she needs to do is put up boundaries. She and Abigail had a terrible start, after all. Raelle figured there was no way she’d ever befriend some trust fund kid, let alone a _Bellweather,_ but now Abigail is one of her best friends. First impressions don’t have to last. If Raelle is determined enough, she will be able to maintain a professional relationship with Scylla… with Ms. Ramshorn. 

Ms. Ramshorn. Her boss. Raelle can maintain a perfectly professional relationship with her boss.

It’s only a few months, anyway. 

How hard can it be?

***

She’s freshly washed and down in the kitchen by 630am. She had crashed very early on—a combination of no internet access and fatigue meaning she barely made it past sundown. 

She wakes up absolutely starving. The last thing she ate, besides the Snickers, was a meal at a diner off the interstate. Even though it was noon, she ordered a cooked breakfast, which had been a mistake; the single tomato they served was rubbery, and her eggs looked and tasted like sweaty plastic. She ate it all, because Raelle’s never been picky about food, but it made her just a touch queasy for the rest of the day. 

It means she’s ravenous by the time she’s in the kitchen, opening up Ms. Ramshorn’s fridge, only to be dismayed with what she finds there. A single carton of milk, two cans of out-of-date minestrone soup, and a tub of margarine. 

"Okay, so I’ve seen her during the day, so she’s probably not a vampire. But where’s the food?"

She gets her answer when she opens the freezer and sees four packets of frozen ready-to-cook meals.

"Gross. Who lives like this? Jeez." 

Thankfully, she’s not going to starve to death because at least Ms. Ramshorn has cereal in the cupboards. Raelle pours herself a big bowl of _Cap'n Crunch,_ relieved that the milk is still in date even if the cereal tastes staler than one of Abigail’s jokes.

"Note to self, order more _Cap'n Crunch_."

"What," Raelle garbles, spinning around. Just like she feared, there’s Ms. Ramshorn, leaning against the kitchen doorway, an indulgent smile on her perfect face.

"I didn’t even remember I had that," she says, entering the kitchen. "You like it?"

"Uh, yeah," Raelle swallows a mouthful of cereal, wiping away the milk leaking down her chin. "I used to eat it all the time when I was a kid."

"I’ll remember that."

Raelle puts the bowl in the sink and tries not to sneak a look at the other woman. It’s early, really early, but she looks impossibly fresh faced, her hair cascading in waves past her shoulders. She’s wearing a fitted, cream colored cashmere sweater, black tights and suede gray boots.

She looks… distractingly pretty. Whereas, even after a solid night’s sleep and a shower, Raelle resembles something that lives under a bridge. She didn’t bother to dress up—she wore her favorite yellow flannel and jeans that are so old she’s pretty sure they’re fraying at the knees. Maybe she would have put on something nicer, except...

She’s just the farmhand. And anyway, she’s not supposed to be looking good for her boss.

"We should go. I want to show you around before I have to get to work." She turns. "Come on now."

Raelle scrambles to keep up, which is a familiar feeling; ever since she’s known Ms. Ramshorn, she’s been scrambling to keep up.

"It’s beautiful," Raelle breathes as they make their way outside. Everywhere she looks there are idyllic, rolling green hills, with the occasional cluster of sweetgums and unkempt bushes. 

"Isn’t it? Fifty acres of pristine land. Enough room for the horses and the chickens. I’d love to do more with the farm. I met a guy once who tried to sell me some cows, I almost took him up on it, but I don’t have the time to care for them."

"What do you do?"

"I’m a researcher at NCRC." She must spot the blank expression on Raelle’s face because she clarifies. "North Carolina Research Campus. I work in the agriculture development’s department. I have to drive into the campus sometimes, but most of my research can be done here."

"Oh?" Raelle gives the other woman a searching look. The frigid air has made Ms. Ramshorn’s cheeks go ruddy, bringing out more clearly the smattering of freckles that dot her face and neck. She must be some kind of child genius, because right now, in the glow of the early morning, she barely looks older than Raelle’s 23 years. "What are you researching?"

"Mycelium."

"Gimme me a minute." Raelle wracks her memory. "Mushrooms, right? Fungus, mushrooms, bacteria, that sorta thing?"

"Got it in one. Aren’t you clever?"

"I do all right."

"And an accent, too. Anacostia said you’re from Boston, but you sound like you’re from around here."

"Yes, ma’am. Hyde County. It’s pretty, but kinda a drag. It’s small, even as far as small towns go. We moved to Boston when I was 16 because my Mom got a job up there. I don’t regret it at all, I made some really great friends there but sometimes… sometimes I think where I grew up wasn’t so bad."

"Hyde County," Ms. Ramshorn sounds wistful. "That’s by the beach, right?"

"Sure is," Raelle says, shoving her hands in her pockets. She has to bite down on the words _I’ll take you there sometime_ because that is exactly the sort of thing an employee does _not_ say to their employer. She quickly looks away, tries to take in the crisp air and the lush surrounds and not think about the lovely curve of Ms. Ramshorn’s eyelashes when suddenly—

"Ow," Raelle staggers forward.

"Raelle. Are you okay? What happened?" 

"I think I tripped." The grass is thick and so long it is brushing past their shins. Raelle gets down on her haunches, the grass pricking her palms as she runs her hand through it. "You need someone to trim this. I doubt the horses will like it."

"I know, I had someone come by and mow everywhere a few months back, but this whole place needs closer attention than I can give it."

"You should hire a gardener."

"I did," Ms. Ramshorn says brusquely. "It didn’t work out."

"Okay. Do you have a ride-on mower? If you do, I’ll take care of the problem."

"I do!" Ms. Ramshorn sounds pleased. But then she furrows her brow, as if a thought just occurred to her. "But you don’t have to do that."

"It’s no big deal, it should only take an afternoon. Or two. And anyway, your ad was a little vague. No reason why a farmhand can’t mow the grass."

"Of course not," Ms. Ramshorn says, pulling Raelle to her feet. Her hand is soft and cool against Raelle’s skin. "It’s a big job, though. Sure you’re up to it?"

"You could help me?" Raelle jokes. "I like a girl willing to get her hands dirty."

She hears the innuendo the second it leaves her mouth. For a split second she hopes it passes by unnoticed, but no such luck; if the wicked grin on Ms. Ramshorn’s face is any indication, she heard it loud and very clear.

Raelle’s face burns as she realizes they’re still holding hands. She hastily steps away, putting as much distance between them as she can without it looking weird. "The horses…"

"Are right this way. Follow me."

***

The barn is the color of rust and is large, with a triangular shaped roof and with at least half a dozen white hatched windows. Raelle can see a flicker of movement within the barn. She quickens her steps, grinning. Finally. This, above everything else, is what she came here for.

Inside there are five horses, all magnificent, and all of them with plenty of room to move even though they’re confined to their individual pens. They all look very different; one is the color of ash, another one is black and white and the other two are varying shades of almond brown. And then there’s one down the back, an enormous black horse that is pawing almost angrily at the hay on the ground.

"They're a bit grumpy. They’re creatures of habit, they’re normally let out before now. As far as your obligations, I want you to clean out the barn, make sure they have enough water, attend to their daily health and take them out to graze each day. The farm has five paddocks. I’d like you to rotate what paddock you take them to so they’re not tempted to overeat and destroy the vegetation," Ms. Ramshorn gently bumps each horse across their snout with the back of her hand as she strolls past. The animals seem to like it, nuzzling her back or trying to lick fingers.

"This is Errol, Tyr, Kane and Anasi."

"Are they all retired racehorses?"

"Errol and Tyr aren’t. They were raised to be part of the Swythe riding school, the one up past Charlotte. The owner tried everything to get them to obey, but they're too smart to spend the rest of their lives carrying around entitled brats. I know the owner’s daughter, she sent them to me before anything unfortunate happened."

"Something bad was going to happen to them?" Raelle kicks at the smattering of hay on the ground. "Ugh. Some people can be such jerks."

"Tell me about it. But now," Scylla stops in front of the final enclosure, smiling proudly up at the huge black horse. "Let me introduce you to Chernobog."

"Chernobog?"

"Mhmmm."

"Really? Who calls a retired racehorse Chernobog?"

"They don't. When I saved him, his name was Lucky. His former owner thought the name would bring him success on the track. He was an idiot and a moron and he was about to make worm meat of Chernobog before I stepped in." She sounds like she’d like to make worm meat of the owner instead. "As soon as I met him, I knew that wasn’t his name. He didn’t suit some childish bullshit moniker like _Lucky_." She grins triumphantly, lifting her tiny hand to the monster horse's nose. He sniffs it before bunting her back. "So I called him Chernobog instead."

"He looks like a handful," Raelle says. She’s trying to catch Chernobog’s eye so that he understands she’s not a threat, but every time she does he looks like he’s going to kick her into next week.

"He is. If you’re firm but respectful, he’ll follow your lead. He likes to show strangers he’s boss, but in the end, he’ll go outside if he’s hungry enough. Also, you should know I take him out for a ride every afternoon."

"Every afternoon?"

"Yes. He’s too restless not to be ridden every day. It’s good for me, of course, I enjoy it, but he needs it more than I do." She strokes the giant animal’s snout.

"My wild boy." She turns to Raelle, lifting up her chin and regarding her seriously. "You’ll be up to the job?"

"Yes, ma’am. We had horses when we lived in Hyde County." The horses on her parents' small property were nothing like Chernobog, but Ms. Ramshorn doesn’t need to know that. "I’m up to the job."

"Good. I’ll leave you to it."

***

There’s plenty to do in the Ramshorn residence, but it’s good, honest work. 

After Raelle gently herded the horses to the nearest paddock—or, to be precise, Chernobog herded her there—she went to check on the chickens to see if any had laid eggs. She then cleaned out the horse's stable and topped up their water. 

Even if she wasn’t wearing a watch, she’d know it’s late afternoon already; the sun has long ago burned away the early morning mist and is now beating down harshly on Raelle and the horses.

"Good boy Tyr," she says soothingly. She has lassoed him and is gently bringing him towards her, keeping eye contact the whole time. "There’s a good boy."

She’s made good progress with all the horses, save for Chernobog. But she’s building a rapport with the others; it’s a tough, dirty job, but the second she sees that nascent flicker of trust in those dark, equine eyes, it makes all the sweat and toil worth it.

Suddenly, she hears a loud, angry whinny. Raelle slips the lasso off Tyr and whirls around, spotting Chernobog loudly braying and staring off at a thicket of trees and bushes to his right. 

"Hey there," Raelle says cautiously. She approaches Chernobog warily, steering well clear of those powerful hind legs. "It’s okay, Chernobog."

Chernobog’s nostrils flare, tail swishing furiously as he stares directly at the trees. He paws the grass underneath his hoof, snorting and shaking his head with clear distaste.

"Okay," she grips the lasso in her hand. He’s distressed by something, something he can see but Raelle can’t. At best Chernobog tolerates Raelle, so she doubts she’d be able to lasso him without pissing him off. But something is bothering him, something that has nothing to do with Raelle or the other horses.

"Hey, what can you see, boy?" Raelle feels the back of her neck prickle in a way that has nothing to do with the sweat that’s pooled there. "Hey? Is anyone there? Hello?"

She waits for a second, poised to race into the thicket, lasso raised over her head, ready to fuck someone’s shit up. But then, just like that, Chernobog relaxes, ducking his head and nonchalantly munching on the grass below. 

"What the… you always gonna scare me like that? Jeez. You know something, you’re a weird dude, anyone ever tell you that?"

Chernobog snorts, training a black eye on Raelle. He’s still wary, but for the first time today, there isn’t a hint of hostility in his gaze.

It’s not much. 

But it is progress.

***

Raelle is just finishing a glass of water in the kitchen when Ms. Ramshorn walks past, clad again in her riding gear.

"Sorry, I was about to bring the horses back in for the day but I just needed a drink first. It’s hot out there."

"Clearly," Ms. Ramshorn says, her eyes lingering over Raelle.

Raelle tenses, suddenly realizes she must look like a total mess. She long ago discarded her yellow flannelette and is now only wearing a gray tank top. Her jeans are dirt smeared and boots are caked in mud and she can feel a sticky, thin sheen of sweat all over her body. 

"Sorry," she says lamely, running a hand through her damp hair. She can’t quite look at Ms. Ramshorn, who is immaculate again in her crisply pressed clothes.

"Raelle," Ms. Ramshorn commands. "Look at me."

Raelle does, feeling fourteen again, tongue tied and awkward around a pretty girl.

"Raelle," Ms. Ramshorn repeats, softer this time, eyes gleaming. "You don’t have to apologize for getting a drink of water. I know this farm needs a lot of work, I appreciate everything you do." Her gloved fingers play with the end of the leather riding crop. "Are the horses okay? How is Chernobog?"

"He’s good," Raelle considers telling her boss about the weird incident this afternoon but thinks better of it. "He’s, uh, a feisty one."

"The best ones always are. Dinner is at seven, if you’d care to join me."

"Yeah. That’d be great."

"Fantastic," Scylla shoots Raelle a playful grin. "See you then."

***

Raelle thought dinner would be served in a soulless dining room she had walked past on her first day here, but instead Ms. Ramshorn set the food down in the living room. Despite its high ceiling, it’s a much more intimate space, hovering somewhere between opulent grandeur and rural sensibility. There are two gray chaise lounges facing one another. In between them is a rectangular, mustard colored ottoman. The floorboards are covered by a stately, chestnut brown rug that is so soft Raelle’s sneakers sink into the fabric. Like a lot of older houses, it runs cold, but not cold enough to use the regal, black marble fireplace.

While the room is impressive, the food is less so. 

"Bon appétit," Ms. Ramshorn says, plopping down a small, microwaved tub of Mac and Cheese in front of Raelle. 

"Mhmm. Thanks."

"I realize the food situation isn’t ideal. I’m on top of it. Also," for the first time, Ms. Ramshorn looks a little sheepish, playing with the sleeve of her ruby colored sweater. "I’m not really gourmet."

"That’s okay," Raelle shrugs. She tucks into the food. It tastes like warmed over mush, but after the day she’s had, Raelle finds she’s actually quite hungry. 

Scylla looks amused as she starts to eat her own microwaved Mac and Cheese. "What about you? Are you a gourmet?"

"Mhmm… sorta. I mean, I’m used to cooking. My dad is hopeless in the kitchen. He’d burn water if you let him. But my mom and I, we’d cook together. We used to do it all the time growing up."

"That sounds lovely. You don’t do it anymore?"

"No. She died."

"Oh," Ms. Ramshorn flinches. It’s subtle, but not enough to evade Raelle’s notice. "I’m sorry about that."

"It’s okay. I was 17. She died when her car collided with a truck. Only one outcome when that happens." Raelle clears her throat, stabbing a piece of pasta with her fork. "Getting to come back to North Carolina was one of the reasons why I took this job."

Ms. Ramshorn smiles softly at that. Raelle tries hard not to notice how pretty she looks in the dim light. "That’s really lovely, Raelle."

"She’d have loved this place. She was always fascinated by southern architecture."

"It’s not as old as some of the other residences around here. It's the turn of the 20th century. 1902. My mom would never have bought an old plantation home. She wouldn’t stand it."

"She sounds like a formidable woman."

Ms. Ramshorn’s smile is sad. "She was."

Raelle’s stomach clenches. She has to fight back the sudden urge to reach over and clasp the other woman’s hand. "I’m sorry. What happened?"

"They died. My parents. At the same time. There was an accident."

"What sort of accident?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Tragic. Sudden. That sort of thing."

 _Touched a nerve_ , Raelle thinks, downing the rest of her water.

"So," Ms. Ramshorn clears her throat. She lifts an elegant eyebrow at Raelle, turning the full power of those piercing blue eyes right on Raelle. "How have you found it? Your first full day as the Ramshorn residence’s farmhand?"

"Great, I love the work. The horses are magnificent and it’s beautiful here, truly. But uh, I do have a couple of questions. Why is there no internet access? And," she gestures towards the kitchen, "is that a _rotary phone_ hanging up on the wall?"

"Yes. It still works, before you say anything. You can call whoever you want." Ms. Ramshorn takes a slow, decadent sip of her water. "Why? Does it bother you?"

"It doesn’t _bother_ me. It’s just strange. Honestly ma’am, the 50s called. And it wants its decade back."

Ms. Ramshorn laughs. It’s a light, almost girlish and so different to how she normally sounds that Raelle can’t help but grin along with her.

"I’m not a complete weirdo. I just said the no phone and Wi-Fi thing in the advertisement to scare off people who are afraid of a bit of peace and quiet. There is internet access throughout the property. It only really works well in my office, my bedroom and occasionally outside. The reception isn’t great. I suppose I could call a professional to modernize the residence, but it’s just me here. Mostly." She smirks. "So I haven’t trapped you. Unless you want to be trapped, that is."

Raelle blinks, a piece of wilted pasta dangling precariously on her fork. She’s not sure if her boss’s words are innocent or coy; Ms. Ramshorn seems to relish walking that fine line. But Raelle is almost certain there’s an invitation in her low voice, one that makes Raelle’s pulse quicken. Not for the first time she realizes she is all alone in a giant house with an _extremely_ attractive woman.

Her younger self would have slid her hand between Ms. Ramshorn’s legs at the first invitation. But she’s been down that road before, and it's littered with bitterness and broken hearts. And none of them have been her own. Girls have loved Raelle, and she’s tried to love them back. But love, that beautiful, precious thing, has never bloomed within her; maybe it can’t, maybe the soil was soured the second that Mack Truck drove her mother off the road.

Or maybe she was always this way. Maybe the soil was bad from the start.

Whatever it is, one thing is for sure; Ms. Ramshorn is her boss. And Raelle is a bit of a fuck up, but not the kind of fuck-up who fucks her boss.

"I should go get some sleep," Raelle says abruptly, setting her fork down. "I’m kinda beat and I’ve got a long day ahead of me."

She doesn’t miss the almost imperceptible way Ms. Ramshorn’s face falls. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, well, I’ll clean up, you get some rest. Goodnight, Raelle. I’ll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight Ma’am."

She heads up to her room, trying to shake off the vaguely disappointed feeling in her chest. She’s not sure why; she has nothing to apologize for. If anything, she’s being responsible, for once.

Her room is quiet and still. Too still. Raelle frowns. She’s not sure she wants to be left alone with her thoughts right now.

There is something she can do. A promise she made that she intends to keep.

She sits down at her desk and picks up the pen and paper she left there earlier in the day.

_Dear Dad,_

_The Ramshorn residence is incredible! You would love it here, it’s so beautiful…_

_***_

Raelle wonders if she’s still dreaming when she stumbles into the Ramshorn kitchen the next morning and realizes straight away she is not alone.

"Hello?"

"Why hello!" the young man in the kitchen booms, his voice entirely too buoyant for the early morning. He’s crouching down next to half a dozen paper bags filled with what looks like unpacked groceries. "Well well, you’ve finally arrived." 

He beams, standing up and running a hand through his tousled brown hair. "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds to shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease hath all too short a date."

Raelle gawks at him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She half expects him to vanish the second her eyelids open, as if she’s stuck in a strange dream about a stately country manner populated by oversized, friendly leprechauns. 

"I knew someone must’ve finally answered the ad. I almost fell over when Scylla faxed the order through," the young man continues, not at all fazed by Raelle’s silence. "The delivery is twice the size of normal, and there is no way Scylla would ever eat _this_."

He dumps a giant box of _Cap'n Crunch_ on the table.

"Holy crap, she remembered!"

"You made an impression, I see. She was quite insistent that this breakfast monstrosity be included in the order." He smiles wryly. "I’m Byron, by the way."

"Raelle," she says, a little embarrassed by her lack of manners. 

"Well, hello Raelle, you’re the new farmhand, I see."

"Yeah, here for the summer." Raelle weaves her way past the grocery bags strewn on the floor. "I was going to brew some coffee, but looks like someone beat me to it."

"Well, it’s 7am and the lady of the manor is probably already cloistered in her office, trying to save the world, one mushroom at a time."

His tone in tart but there’s an underlying softness there, an affection bubbling away beneath the surface. It makes her smile and think of Abigail.

"Got it. So, Byron," Raelle says, pouring herself a cup of coffee, deciding she likes this odd, cheerful stranger. She gestures to see if he wants a cup too but he waves her off. "You deliver the groceries?"

"Yes siree."

"Dressed like… that?"

Byron looks down at himself, as if surprised. He’s wearing a plum colored suit and pants, well tailored to fit his wiry frame. Underneath the suit jacket is a crisp, cream dress shirt that’s unbuttoned at the neck and expensive looking brown loafers. He reminds Raelle of the sort of guy who sells the tickets at a hipster trivia night. 

"Oh, this old thing? My dad always says it’s always important to dress for success. He also says the moon landing isn’t real, so I don’t take everything he says seriously, but on this, we agree."

"Okay, fair play," she laughs, taking a sip of her coffee. "You lived here long?"

"My whole life. Well. I lived in Austin while I was doing my degree in Arts History majoring in Aesthetics, but who knew that would have such _terrible_ job prospects? So I’m back here, helping dad with the grocery business."

"And Ms. Ramshorn… Scylla… you guys are, friends?"

"Of course, ever since she moved here. She was kinda odd, I mean, I’m fabulous but also _maybe_ a little odd, so we clicked. Plus," he adds casually, "we were the only queer kids in the village, so, we could bond over that."

The only queer kids in the village? Raelle gulps, the still warm coffee rushing a bit too quickly down her throat. She shakes her head, ignoring the dull roar in her ears. She doesn’t, she _can’t_ , think about the implications of spending the summer with a gorgeous woman who might be receptive to Raelle’s advances.

Not that Raelle would _make_ any advances, of course. 

"And, well," Byron continues, oblivious. "She works too hard, doesn’t take care of herself and can be the grumpiest you-know-what this side of the Mississippi, but she’s brilliant. And a good person."

Raelle snorts before she can help herself. "Yeah, kinda cagey though."

"She’s been through a lot. She doesn’t always show it, but she cares." He’s looking at her with interest now. "She takes a while to open up, but she’s worth the investment."

"Great, well, you know, she’s just the boss, so." Raelle dumps the rest of her coffee in the sink. "You need any help putting this away?"

"Sure, that would be nice, thanks."

"Hey Byron," Raelle says after a moment, putting a packet of chicken drumsticks in the fridge. "Is there anyone else working on the property? Any other hired..help, I guess?"

"Nope. I pop in for the groceries, obviously. And you now, of course. Why?"

"So, no one else has access to the property? No one else would sneak in?"

"Doubt it. If they did, Scylla would sic her giant horse on them. Why?"

"Oh," Raelle says, ignoring a faint prickle of discomfort on her skin. "No reason."

***

It’s already early afternoon when Raelle finally feels ready to take a break. Her back and fingers ache from rounding up the horses. Chernobog kicked at her today when she led him to a new paddock, annoyed that he wasn’t allowed to strip the old one bare. It made Raelle wish she had Ms. Ramshorn’s crop. Not that she’d be any good at wielding it, but it would be helpful if she had more in her arsenal than a few sharp words and patience when dealing with Chernobog.

As the kettle boils, Raelle glances upstairs. She’s only been here two days, but she hasn’t seen Scylla step foot outside her study unless it’s dinnertime. And from Bryon’s comments, it seems this is perfectly ordinary; Ms. Ramshorn, working from sunup to sundown.

It must be solitary, Raelle thinks. It can’t hurt to have a little company, something to ease the vast emptiness of the house during the day. The residence is so beautiful but also achingly still. Raelle swears sometimes she can hear own heartbeats, hard and heavy, against her chest.

She takes a cup of tea and lingers outside the door to Ms. Ramshorn’s office. She’s not sure why she’s nervous. Her boss never told her not to disturb her during the day, but somehow, it still feels a little bit… wrong… to be doing this.

"Ms. Ramshorn?" She knocks on the door. Then again harder, then harder again. "Ma’am?"

"What? Yes, uh, yes, come in."

Her boss is sitting at her desk, which like the rest of the room, is huge. Although it’s hard to gauge how big it really is, since every square inch of space is taken up by books and unruly pot plants, with vines that are twining around the room like grasping claws. The rest of the space is taken up by research paraphernalia, beakers, funnels, test tubes and other equipment that Raelle doesn't recognize. 

There is a heavy, cloying smell within the office. Jasmine, Raelle thinks, but it doesn’t quite mask the wet stench of dirt and sharp tang of chemicals in the air. Raelle wonders why on earth Ms. Ramshorn doesn’t just open up a window.

"Raelle?" Ms. Ramshorn asks, blinking back at her behind a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses. On her desk there is a huge microscope and ancient looking laptop. There’s a notepad to her left, which she is still scrawling some notes on. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything is great! I just bought you tea."

"Tea?"

"Tea? You know, that tasty drink people consume to slake their thirst," she takes a few steps into the study. "So, uh, would you like me to pop on or your, desk, or—"

"No," Ms. Ramshorn says sharply. "Don’t come any further." She dashes towards Raelle, pointing silently to a dark, straight line drawn crudely on the floor. "No one is supposed to go past this point."

Raelle doesn’t know what the fuck to say to that. "Uh, okay, sorry."

"It’s fine, you didn’t know," she says curtly, taking the cup from Raelle’s hands.

"Cool," Raelle says, shoving her hands into the pocket of her overalls. She can’t quite look at her boss, who has dressed as if she's going to an important meeting, with her mauve pencil skirt and pearl-colored blouse. Her hair is done up in a tight bun, except one stray trestle that keeps falling to her face. "Well, I should probably go."

"That would be wise."

"Okay," Raelle says, swiveling on her heels and retreating fast. She knows she should be annoyed, but honestly, she feels more perplexed than anything else.

"Raelle?" Ms. Ramshorn calls out. "Thank you."

"No problem ma’am," she says, turning back to Ms. Ramshorn, but her boss is peering intently into her microscope, Raelle already forgotten.

***

"So I really ought to properly thank you."

"Why?" Raelle asks as she shovels a mouthful of tomato and beef ravioli in her mouth as the pair of them sit together in the living room that evening.

"Well, not only did you cook me this delicious meal, but you brought me tea earlier today."

"Dinner took like, ten minutes to make, and the tea, I’m not sure you actually appreciated that."

"Raelle, this is the first meal I have eaten that didn’t come in a box for months. And, as for the tea, I did appreciate it. I know I’m quite… intense about my work. Intense about everything really, but I did want to say," her voice is barely above a whisper, "thank you."

She’s so sincere, with one leg curled up underneath her as she sits on the couch, her shoes kicked off and the moonlight gently skimming the side of her face. She looks softer, not so much Raelle’s boss, but something else, something more approachable. For a second, Raelle can’t think of anything else except to stare at her, at how her hair frames her face, the freckles dotting her neck or the low cut of her floral shirt.

"It did slake my thirst. Well, one of my thirsts, anyway."

"What?" Raelle has to shake herself, as if emerging from a daze. 

Ms. Ramshorn’s face stretches into a slow, indolent smile, the kind that means one thing: trouble.

"Raelle Collar, I believe I owe you a drink. What’s your poison?"

"Anything. I’m partial to rum, but I’ll have what you’re having."

Ms. Ramshorn grins slyly as she stands by a pewter drinks tray in the corner of the living room. The tray is laden with at least half a dozen bottles. "I doubt you can keep up with me."

"Oh yeah," Raelle feels the first stirrings of ire in her chest. "Where I grew up, drinking is a religion. I can hold my liquor. And then some."

"Did anyone ever tell you your drawl comes out when you’re annoyed?"

Raelle scowls. "I’m not annoyed."

"Your face says otherwise."

Raelle lifts her head, staring back at Ms. Ramshorn. She won’t be cowed by anyone. "I’ll have what you’re having."

"I want it on the record I tried to dissuade you," Ms. Ramshorn says with a low, throaty chuckle, so hoarse Raelle swears she feels the vibrations go right down to her toes. "Still," Ms. Ramshorn continues, pouring them both a drink. Raelle lost track of how many different shots there were after the third pour. "If you overindulge, you will get punished."

"What?"

"A hangover, Raelle," she flutters those long eyelashes. "What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing," Raelle murmurs, the tips of her ears burning scarlet. She’s inexplicably embarrassed, even though she knows she hasn’t said anything or done anything wrong. She takes a huge gulp of her drink, grateful that her mouth is doing something other than talking. The alcohol burns her throat, but at least the worst of the flavor is covered by the saccharine taste of candied cherry. "Not bad."

"It’s just a little something I cooked up when I was fifteen."

_"Fifteen?"_

"Sure. Not a lot to do around here then drink yourself into oblivion, and if I’m going to do that, I’m going to do it in style."

"Byron help you concoct this?"

"No. He’s more a canape-kinda-guy, which is good, since you know how well I cook," she cocks her head, smiling delightedly. "You met Bryon?" 

"Yes ma’am. He’s a great guy."

"The best. What did he say about me?"

"He said you’re brilliant. And that you take a while to open up, but you’re worth the investment."

"Is that right? He’s wiser than his years."

"When did you move here?" Raelle asks, taking another swig. 

"When I was fourteen. My father was a diplomat, I got to see the world, which was fun, except for the part where we didn’t stay in one spot longer than a few months. It meant I was relieved when I finally had a little bit of permanence, even though that meant staying here."

"That sounds lonely."

"I don’t get lonely," Ms. Ramshorn says shortly, looking out at the darkness outside, a melancholy twist to her mouth. 

There’s a palpable sadness to her. Raelle almost wants to apologize. She’s fucked up again, somehow. Maybe it’s a sign she should call it a night. The alcohol is stronger than Raelle would like to admit; she’s already a bit lightheaded. If she turns in now, she can just go to sleep. That way, she can ignore this stupid, almost overwhelming urge for connection; to chip away at Ms. Ramshorn's artifice and see what lies underneath.

Suddenly her companion beams, lighting up as if an idea just hit her.

"If you’re so keen to hear about my past, let’s make a game of it. What do you say, Raelle? Do you like games?"

***

"Checkers? Really?"

They’re sitting on opposite chaise longues, with the board on the checkered ottoman between them.

"Why not," Ms. Ramshorn says, arranging the pieces on the board.

"You do know this is a weird way to spend your time, right? You’re practically my age but you want to play board games and read books instead of watching Netflix."

"Where's the fun in that? I like a bit of competition, don’t you?" Ms. Ramshorn doesn’t wait for an answer, just looks down at the board with a satisfied smile. "You win, you get to ask me anything you like. I win, I get to ask anything I like. Got it?"

Raelle’s heart begins to beat faster. "Yep," she says, as Scylla tops both their drinks up.

"Great, let’s begin."

Raelle played cards with her family, she only played checkers a few times with friends growing up. She should have said no; but she’s not the type to back down from a challenge, and watching the way Ms. Ramshorn bites her lip as she contemplates what pieces to move is its own type of reward.

Ms. Ramshorn seems to take an age between every move, as if trying to puzzle out every scenario. Raelle likes to act on instinct so she does, making the move that feels right for the moment.

It seems to work at first, Raelle bold strategy netting her a flurry of pieces. Ms. Ramshorn doesn’t seem worried, her lips twitching upwards the longer the game progresses.

The game finally rises to its crescendo, Raelle having two kings left, Ms. Ramshorn three; Raelle noticing too late her opponent was prepared to sacrifice the smaller pieces in order to be in this very position. Ms. Ramshorn pushes her advantage remorsefully, using her two kings to pin Raelle’s in place while eliminating all the other remaining pieces.

"Shit, how d’you do that?"

"You’re so _impatient_ , Raelle. Maybe slow down once in a while and you’ll learn all my secrets. Now," she’s smiling with absolute relish. "My reward. Tell me, how many women have you been with?"

Raelle shivers. It’s a simple question, but it makes her flush. "A lot. I’ve wanted to find someone special, make a connection. But I never did, so… I just took what was on offer."

"How many, Raelle?"

"Like I said, it’s a lot, I went through a bit of a phase where—"

"How _many_ , Raelle?"

"Twenty four," Raelle blurts out. She’s embarrassed. She never cared that she slept around, in fact, she and Abigail used to joke about it. She likes making women feel good; what’s the harm in that? But now she feels something she hasn’t felt in years; self conscious. She pulls at the edge of her sweater, hoping the gloom is hiding her awkward expression.

"Huh," Ms. Ramshorn taps her chin with a finger. "You’ve been a very busy girl, haven’t you? Still so young, and yet, you’ve coaxed 24 girls into your bed."

 _Hasn’t always been a bed,_ Raelle thinks, but she doesn’t trust herself to speak, instead taking another huge gulp of alcohol, enjoying its bitter burn. 

"I don’t blame them. Who wouldn’t be tempted by you?"

Danger, Raelle thinks. _Danger, danger danger_. She knows an invitation when she hears one. Ms. Ramshorn’s eyes are dark as she leans back on the couch with a languid grace, not pulling her gaze away from Raelle for even a second. 

It wouldn’t take much to broach the distance between them, to cradle that gorgeous face in her hands and use her body to push Ms. Ramshorn firmly into the couch, and -

"How many women have you been with?" the question is out before Raelle can stop herself.

"Oh? Well, more than one, but fewer than you. If you want to know more, though, we’ll have to play again."

"C’mon," Raelle's voice sounds whiny, even to her own ears. "Please, just tell me."

"My house, my rules, Raelle. You either play by them or find yourself another partner. I’m not going to cheat, if you can beat me fair and square then you can ask me any damn thing you please. So," she cocks an eyebrow at Raelle. "What do you say, gorgeous? Want to play?"

***

Raelle loses. Again.

And she tried so fucking hard this time. Pondering over which move to make, going over which strategy will best break her opponent down. But it doesn’t work and when her final piece is swatted off the board, Raelle’s shoulders sag with defeat.

"Well, well, well," Ms. Ramshorn licks her lips. "I like this game."

"I’d like another drink please."

"You don’t think you’ve had enough?"

"Please…. Just…. please."

"Well, when you ask so nicely," her boss gets up. They’ve moved onto brandy. At this point, Raelle is not opposed to drinking herself into the ground, but Ms. Ramshorn isn’t on board; when she tops Raelle’s drink up, it’s only half a nip.

"You won. You get your prize."

"I suppose I do," she says. Her eyes are so luminous in the moonlight, and Raelle can’t help but stare. "Tell me about your first time, Raelle."

"My first time?"

"Yes. Do you remember it?"

Of course. Mindy Halper. "Yes."

"Tell me."

"Her name was Mindy. We were sixteen, but we first met in middle school. It was a Wednesday, I know it had to be a Wednesday because we were moving to Boston that Friday. We smuggled a bottle of my mother’s wine into my room….a Riesling? Or something like that. It tasted sweet. Mindy loved it. I knew… I had feelings for her, and I thought she did too. She kept sneaking little looks at me during class, and sometimes she’d hold my hand when we were alone in the corridors. So after I had a couple of glasses I just..I knew I had to do it then. I had to kiss her, or I’d never have another chance again. So I did it. And she kissed me back."

"Sweet. Then what happened?"

"We moved to my bed. I thought we’d only kiss a bit, but I couldn’t help myself. I just really wanted her, and she never stopped me. So I kept going. I think if I stopped I would’ve chickened out. I don’t remember how exactly, but suddenly my hand was in her underwear…" the memories are rushing back in vivid technicolor. "She was so wet. I didn’t know what I was doing, but she liked it. I could see everything because we didn’t turn the light off." Raelle can hear the echo of Mindy’s moans reverberating in her ears. "My parents were downstairs, so we had to be quiet. She was panting against my pillow, trying to muffle the noise. I couldn’t stop staring at her, even when she got impatient and made me go inside of her." Raelle’s face is hot. "Thank god she finished just before my Mom called us down for dinner."

"Dinner must’ve been fun."

"Yeah, in an excruciating kinda way. I don’t think I said a word the whole time. Mindy left straight afterwards."

"She didn’t reciprocate the favor?"

"No. She said her mom needed her home."

"Oh," Ms. Ramshorn’s voice is low and barely above a whisper. "Were you turned on, Raelle?"

"Yes."

"Did you touch yourself?"

Raelle closes her eyes, swallowing hard even though her mouth is dry. The walls seem to be closing in; the manor is massive but right now it feels small, intimate, as if she and Ms. Ramshorn are the only two people alive in the world.

"Yes," Raelle answers, even though she knows, _she knows_ , she shouldn’t. Her vision swims a little as she stares down at the rug between her feet.

"How?"

"I laid down flat on my stomach. I could smell… I think it was Mindy’s shampoo. I pulled my pants down to the knees and… ground myself against the mattress, closing my eyes and thinking about her the entire time." 

"Did you ever see her again?"

"No. She didn’t even come to say goodbye. Last I heard she married some dumb jock and now has a baby on the way."

"She’s stupid then. And not good enough for you.

"Yeah," the world spins suddenly. Raelle sticks a hand out, stopping herself sagging onto the couch. "Whoa."

"Jesus," Ms. Ramshorn is beside her in a flash. Gone is the sultry expression; now there isn’t anything except concern in those blue eyes. "Raelle, I think you need to go to bed."

"Is that an invitation? Don’t worry, beautiful, I got follow through."

"Yeah, you’re definitely going to bed. Alone."

Ms. Ramshorn helps her to her feet, slinging Raelle’s arm around her shoulder. The house is massive, and every step feels like a rickety mile. Her legs are like jelly but Ms. Ramshorn takes Raelle’s weight like it’s nothing, half carrying her up the stairs and towards her room.

Before Raelle knows it she’s in her bedroom, being gently lowered onto the bed. She sinks into the mattress; the world spinning in earnest now.

"I’m sorry," she thinks she hears Ms. Ramshorn, although the words sound muffled, as if Raelle is buried under sand. "I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard. Sometimes I’m not good with boundaries. Sorry. If you need tomorrow off, do it. Just… take care of yourself, Raelle."

 _It’s_ _me_ _who_ _should_ _be_ _sorry_ , Raelle thinks. Or maybe she dreams it, because by her next breath the world has blurred into blackness.


	2. Whiskey and Wild Women

Raelle is a fucking moron.

She wakes up with a dry mouth and a pounding head and feeling completely and utterly mortified. The minute she opens her eyes, the night rushes back all in its humiliating glory; Raelle, getting drunk, Raelle, telling her boss intimate secrets. Raelle, propositioning said boss, _two nights_ into her _twelve week_ stay.

God. She’s a fucking idiot. She should pack her bags and go right now. She’s embarrassed herself enough, surely. Maybe if she left now, she’d be able to retain some dignity.

But… oh. The horses. And the Ramshorn residence's beauty. And its stillness. She’s at peace here in a way she hasn’t been in years. Not since her mom died. Not since before that, even.

Plus, if she left now, Abigail would _never_ let her live it down.

She just needs to be professional. She’s an adult. Sure, Ms. Ramshorn is gorgeous. And sure, if she were someone else, some other girl, then maybe Raelle would give in. But this is different. This is her job. She has to make it work.

She will make it work.

She spends the day working hard, not giving herself a moment’s respite. Even Chernobog stays out of her way. It’s nightfall when she finishes mowing the grounds; dinner is just heated leftovers and Ms. Ramshorn, thankfully, seems to get the memo; their discussion is purely professional; mostly about the horses. The other woman doesn’t stop Raelle when she goes upstairs. Although she thinks she sees Ms. Ramshorn’s face falter, just for a second, when Raelle bids her goodnight.

Raelle turns the shower on so hot the water almost scalds the skin. She revels in it; that subtle line between satisfaction and pain; after all her mistakes, she deserves a little discomfort. But soon the pain ebbs away, replaced by a strange sort of euphoria. It’s like the past few days have been washed away; and now, finally, she can start anew.

Afterwards, she lays face first on her pillow. The manor is so, so quiet.

_Tell me about your first time, Raelle._

Nope, she wills her mind. Don’t you dare even think about going there!

_Were you turned on, Raelle?_

Raelle represses a shudder. She’s suddenly aware of just how keyed up she is; the throb between her thighs is insistent, almost unbearable. She moves against the mattress, pushing her hips flush against the sheets. The pressure is good; it eases the ache even through her pajama bottoms. 

But not enough. Not enough. She thinks of Mindy. Raelle remembers the shame she felt after humping the sheets to climax, the scent of her friend’s perfume still clinging to the sheets. Except it’s not Mindy anymore.

_Did you touch yourself, Raelle?_

Fuck, fuck, fuck. She starts to grind a little harder against the bed. Her fingers twitch. Raelle hasn't touched herself, but she knows she’s wet. 

She wishes Scylla was here. She wishes she could feel Scylla’s breath on the back of her neck, hot and hard as she pulls Raelle’s underwear down to her knees. 

Raelle moans, her hips humping the mattress just a little harder, making the ancient bedframe groan beneath her.

She’s already checked out Scylla’s hands. They’re not large but they are elegant and graceful and somehow that makes it hotter; thinking about those clever fingers doing squalid, dirty things. Spreading Raelle’s legs wide open and pushing inside, fucking Raelle until she’s gasping into the sheets.

She feels a throb of want as she strokes herself over her pajamas. God, she wants Scylla’s body on top of hers, pushing her into the mattress.

She wants, she wants…

 _No_.

She swallows hard, moving her hand away and turning onto her back. She can feel a dull, wet ache between her legs.

She can’t do this. She can’t give in.

Raelle picks up her phone. There isn’t any reception; which is good, because she has an odd urge to text Tally; to type _HELP_ because she knows her friend would drop everything to talk.

Except maybe it’s better this way. Tally wouldn’t judge. But she’s also too soft, too encouraging. Raelle doesn’t want to be encouraged right now.

She doesn’t deserve that.

Raelle gets off the bed, going to the small bookshelf on the other side of the room. She shifts her feet; she can tell she’s already embarrassingly wet.

She picks up a book at random, _‘On the Road’_ by Jack Kerouac. She settles back into bed, trying hard to ignore the dull ache between her thighs.

She reads the book and tries, as best she can, to forget.

***

Raelle knows she’s punishing herself, but it feels good to do every dirty, hard job in the field. She likes the way her muscles scream; at least the soreness focusses her mind on the pain, and not anything else.

She's shoveling chicken shit under the baking mid-afternoon sun when she hears something rustle in the undergrowth a little way to her left.

"Hello?"

No answer. Raelle rubs the back of her neck. It’s caked with drying sweat and mud. She’s about to get back to it—the quicker it’s done, the quicker she can shower—when she sees Chernobog, in the nearest paddock, stamp his hooves against the dirt. 

She knows him well enough that he doesn’t kick up a fuss over nothing. She looks back towards the tight patch of trees to her left.

Right, Raelle thinks, gripping the shaft of her shovel. She needs to figure out what is happening. 

She makes her way down slowly down a meandering, rocky path. Adrenaline thrums through her; she watches for the smallest movements, eyes darting all around, looking for any hidden assailant.

"All right, asshole," she murmurs underneath her breath. "If you’re here, I’m going to find you—AH!"

"Ah!"

"What the fuck!" Raelle snarls, stumbling back a bit as a tall man steps into her path. She waves the blade of her shovel in his face. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there!" the man says, holding his hands up pleadingly. "Sorry to scare you."

"You didn’t answer my question. Who the fuck are you?"

"Of course, I’m sorry, I forgot my manners." The young man smiles in a way Raelle assumes is meant to be placating. "I’m Porter."

Raelle doesn’t lower the shovel’s blade. "And what are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to speak to the lady of the house. Is she around? Scylla, I mean."

Raelle narrows her eyes. The man looks around her age, tall and broad but with a lean, laborers kind-of-build. He has short cropped curly blonde hair and a long angular face that could be handsome in the right light; but underneath the dense canopy he looks… odd. Unfinished. Like an unloved Picasso draft. 

"Why do you want to know?" Raelle says. She can hear the annoyance in her voice. "What do you want with her?"

"Are you her new guard dog or something?"

"Answer the question, wiseguy."

"I’m the gardener. Or I was. I just wanted to," he fishes into the pocket of his egg white jacket. "Give her my card, let her know I’m back in town if she wants anymore help with the place. It looks like it could use some TLC."

"Yeah, well, I’m handling it."

"Oh yeah?" his pale blue eyes focus properly on Raelle for the first time. "Are _you_ the gardener?"

"No," Raelle grits out, gripping the shovel’s shaft. "I’m the farmhand."

"Oh!" Porter lets out a raucous whoop of laughter, slapping his large hand against his thigh. "Finally, god, she’s been advertising that position for months! I didn’t think she’d get any takers. I told her, girls don’t want to spend their summer working on a _farm_ in the middle of nowhere. But hey, this is great! I’m so happy for her, and for you too, of course, it's a beautiful residence." He pouts his lips in what Raelle thinks is supposed to be playful, bringing his hand up to a mock salute. "Welcome aboard… wait, what was your name?"

"Raelle," she snaps, resisting the urge to criticize his saluting technique. "And you’re not aboard anything. Clearly you’re not much of a gardener."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you’re no longer the gardener here."

"Oh," he clenches his jaw. "Yeah, well, things change so… could you give her my card? Please?"

"Fine," Raelle huffs, bringing the shovel down and resting it by her side. She takes the card. It’s small, with black block letter writing.

_Porter Tippett._

_Your friendly local handyman and gardener extraordinaire._

"Ugh. Sure, Peter, I’ll give it to her."

"No, it’s Porter, see, it’s on my card…"

"Whatever, Pablo," Raelle snaps, shoving the card in her jeans pocket, enjoying the dull confusion on his face. "I’ll give her the card, but maybe next time you want to talk to her, you go and knock on the front door like a normal human being instead of hanging out in the bushes like some skeevy dude who belongs on a federal database. Got it?"

His smile is like a knife "Got it."

***

She’d never say it aloud, but she’s shaken that someone could be lurking in the grounds without Raelle knowing. Porter’s card feels heavy in her pocket as she herds the horses back into the stable and locks up for the night.

When she finds Ms. Ramshorn, she is reading a book, reclining regally on an outdoor sofa. She’s wearing a thin, ivory-colored sundress, with a high, lace neck. The hemline is shorter, coming up to her mid thigh, showing off her pale legs. Her toes are wiggling a bit in the sun—she had kicked off her shoes sometime earlier.

"Raelle" she smiles broadly. Raelle can’t know for sure, but she’d hazard a guess Ms. Ramshorn’s eyes are twinkling behind her large, dark sunglasses. "You are a sight for sore eyes."

"Oh yeah? What about this?" Raelle dumps the card down next to her on the sofa.

Ms. Ramshorn’s lips thin. "Oh. How did you get this?"

"From the man himself. He was lurking on the property."

"What?" Ms. Ramshorn sits up.

"Yeah. He acted like it's no big deal to be creeping around in the undergrowth. I told him to knock next time. Oh, and he wants his job back, apparently."

"Yeah well," Ms. Ramshorn rips the card in two, letting the crumpled remains fall to the floor beneath her. "Not gonna happen. I thought he was staying in Charlotte. Seems like he’s crawled back here."

"Who is he?"

"Just a gardener. I tried him out, and I found him to be wanting."

"He doesn’t agree," Raelle says bitterly. She’s not sure why, but just the thought of Porter and his stupid, pouty face is making her angrier than she’s been in a while. "He seems to think he’s entitled to his job back."

"He was never good with the word ‘no’."

"Scylla. Sorry, Ms. Ramshorn. Should I be worried about this guy?"

"Not at all. He’s all talk. He’ll get bored soon enough and skulk back to whatever hole he slithered out from."

"If I see him lurking around the property again, I’ll hit him with my shovel."

Ms. Ramshorn laughs. "What?"

"He jumped out at me in that grove near paddock four. I almost clocked him. Still, I waved it in his face a few times. I think he got the message."

"Aw," Ms. Ramshorn says in that low, throaty way of hers. She gets up, broaching the distance between. "Are you protecting me?" She curls her fingers loosely around Raelle’s wrist. "You don’t need to worry about him. He’s nothing to me. And you… have far exceeded my expectations." She smiles, stepping forward, so close her breath puffs against Raelle’s cheek. "Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

"Yes." Raelle says. Her ears pounding. They’re so close she can count the freckles on Ms. Ramshorn’s face, map the slope of her cheekbones down to the sharp cut of her jaw. She’s so beautiful. Raelle thinks she could stare at her forever.

But she can’t.

She jerks her gaze away, ashamed, worried that she’s said too much, though she hasn't spoken a word. Her gaze is drawn to Ms. Ramshorn's sundress; it’s loose, but Raelle can see the gentle curve of her hip.

"Raelle," Ms. Ramshorn places two fingers underneath Raelle’s chin, forcing her gently to look up. "You don’t have to look away."

"I should go," Raelle croaks. Her eyes, her traitorous eyes, flit down to Ms. Ramshorn’s lips. "I’m all gross."

"No, you’re not."

"Really," Raelle says, stepping away. Ms. Ramshorn’s dress is rustling in the soft breeze. It takes every ounce of Raelle’s willpower not to reach out and touch. "I gotta go."

She turns on her heels, embarrassed that she’s practically running away. But it’s too much. Being around Ms. Ramshorn is too much right now. If she stays a minute longer, she’s not sure what she'll do.

Actually, she does know. 

So, like a frightened horse, Raelle bolts. 

She takes the stairs two at a time. She grabs some clean clothes, left crumpled on the floor and goes to the shower, running the water hot, scrubbing the grime and sweat and the slick between her thighs away.

It takes a long time. When she gets out, Ms. Ramshorn is nowhere to be seen.

It’s probably a good thing. Raelle goes to the kitchen and makes herself a sandwich and a rum and coke, trying to calm her rattled nerves. She’s starting to feel like perhaps she’s got her equilibrium back as she ascends the stairs, heading towards her bedroom when—

Ms. Ramshorn emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and condensation, her dark hair slicked back. She’s wearing another white dress, longer this time, with dark, interlocking bodice laces over her chest. Her skin is damp; the dress clings to her body. Her nipples are clearly visible underneath the fabric, dark against the white cotton. Raelle shivers.

"Raelle…" 

"Goodnight, ma’am. I’ll see you tomorrow."

Ms. Ramshorn’s teeth sink into her soft, pink lips. "Goodnight, Raelle."

Raelle’s inside her room within a moment, shutting the door behind her with a loud crash, throwing herself on the bed. She closes her eyes, breathing deeply, trying to soothe her nerves. But while her heartbeat slows, it doesn’t ease the ache between her legs.

Her hands are sliding down her body before her mind registers what she’s doing. She unbuckles her belt crudely before shoving her hand beneath the waistband of her boxers, gasping at the hot heat she finds there.

She’s so wet. She grinds two fingers against herself; her slickness coating the tips of her fingers. A throb of desire runs through her as she jerks her hips needily against her hand.

Fuck, she whimpers to herself. The dull throb, that’s been there ever since set foot in the Ramshorn residence, from before, when she saw Scylla on that dusty, empty road, roars to life.

There’s no finesse here, no fingers swirling gently around her clit. Raelle grinds down hard, chasing release, already hovering on the precipice.

She needs…

"You’re a good girl, aren’t you?" a low purr in Raelle’s ear.

Raelle gasps. She slams her eyes shut and is rewarded when she sees Scylla smiling wickedly down at her.

"You’re so good for me," Scylla says, reaching between them and sliding inside Raelle gently. "You feel so good."

"Yes, fuck," Raelle gasps aloud, pushing down harder, grinding against herself as hard as she can. She wishes, she wishes…

" _Were you turned on, Raelle_?"

Those eyes, glinting in the gloom as she stares at Raelle from across the living room. Raelle moans, whether in her fantasy or in real life, she doesn’t know. It’s good, it’s so fucking good, but… 

She pulls her slick fingers away from her centre, shimming her jeans and boxer shorts down to her knees before rolling onto her stomach.

 _Fuck_. She slides her fingers against her clit. The weight of her body is trapping her hand in place so all she can really do is coarsely hump her fingers.

Raelle buries her face into the pillow, grinding down frantically. In her mind, Scylla is behind her, leaning her whole weight against Raelle’s back. It’s intimate and hot all at once, and Raelle swears she can feel Scylla’s breath on her skin.

"Fuck," she moans into the pillow, rutting against her hand and the mattress furiously. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Raelle," Scylla says against Raelle’s ear. "Be a good girl and take it."

She feels like such a dirty slut, rutting against her fingers like a horny teenager, thinking about her boss taking her from behind. But it’s so good she can’t help it. God, Raelle wants to be taken. She’s never wanted something so badly.

" _Did you touch yourself?"_

Raelle moans into the pillow again, the pleasure building up and up, the only noise in her room her own ragged breaths and the rustle of the blankets underneath her. God, she’s so close. All she can think of are those eyes. Those gorgeous eyes, the bluest of blue, and it’s enough to tip her over the edge, her cunt clenching around nothing, the pleasure ebbing and flowing waves. 

"Fuck," Raelle gasps, writhing on the bed, the strength of the orgasm a shock to her weary system. She moans, riding out the pleasure as best she can. "Oh god."

And just like that, it’s over. She slumps against the mattress, her breath coming out in heavy pants, luxuriating in post-orgasmic bliss.

Then the shame washes over her like a wave. God, she’s so fucked up. She just humped herself to climax by thinking about her boss. Her boss, the one person she cannot have.

What is wrong with her? 

She sits up, shivering as the air hits her cunt, making her realize how slick she is. She tugs her jeans and boxers back up, not bothering to do up her belt.

She runs her fingers over the bed around her, blushing with mortification when she feels the wet patch on the sheets.

God. She did that. She did that, rutting against the sheets like a dirty little slut, thinking about getting fucked into the mattress by Ms. Ramshorn. Raelle shudders, feeling a quiver of pleasure run through her at just the thought…

No. She needs to put a stop to this. This can’t go on…

Raelle swallows hard, grabbing her phone, sticking in some headphones and listening to some music, putting the volume up high to drown out her thoughts.

She needs to resolve this situation. One way or another.

***

She gets up as soon as the sun rises. For once she can barely stomach food, taking a few feeble bites of some toast before discarding it. She normally likes to spend an idle hour in the morning in the kitchen, watching the farm shake into life, but today she can’t leave quick enough.

It’s late morning when she finishes up in the stables, the horses long since released. She’s regretting her outfit; in her haste she had only bothered to put on her overalls, boots and nothing else besides a tatty bra and boxers. It means her arms have been exposed to the morning sun; she’s probably going to get a wicked sunburn.

Great.

She goes inside briefly, distracting herself by writing another letter to her father, telling him in more mundane detail about the farm and about just how difficult Chernobog is to master. 

She’s about to go back outside when she stops by the kitchen window. She’s not sure what made her pause until the figure moves again; someone is in a part of the farm Raelle hasn’t spent much time in, a small valley to the property’s north. For a moment her stomach twists, thinking it’s Porter skulking back into the property, but the figure is too slight for that.

Her feet start moving before she can stop herself. 

When she gets to the meadow, the first thing she notices is how unruly it is here; the grass is long and mottled, almost coming up to Raelle’s knee. She frowns, moving clumsily, determined to get the ride-on mower out here…

There, right in front of her, is Ms. Ramshorn, a discarded book next to her and a mischievous look on her face. She’s like something out of a southern tableau; lolling on the grass, dressed as if she sauntered out of one of Raelle’s idle fantasies. 

She’s wearing tight, high waisted brown pants and a white linen top with sprigs of flowers peeking out from her shirt pocket. The bottom of her shirt is done up in a pretty bow. Raelle can glimpse her belly button, see her abs tensing and relaxing with each breath.

Her wide brim hat frames her face perfectly; the shade brings out the smattering of freckles on her jaw and nose. She’s chewing indolently on a piece of hay; her eyes are trained directly on Raelle.

She’s so, so beautiful. Raelle can’t speak, can’t do anything, the longing inside her so vast it aches.

Ms. Ramshorn smirks. She spreads her legs.

"Raelle. You better get to work."

For a moment there is silence. And then…

Raelle’s knees buckle. She’s on the ground in an instant, legs sinking deep into the earth. She whimpers as her hands pull at Ms. Ramhorn’s pants. Raelle’s normally so _good_ at this, but her fingers feel hollow and clumsy as she scrambles to pull down her boss’s zipper.

Raelle swears her heart is in her throat as she tugs at Ms. Ramshorn’s pants. Her boss helps, a wide grin in her perfect face as she lifts her hips from the ground as Raelle pulls her pants and underwear down to her knees.

Her boss leans back against the grass, propping her head on her arm and watching Raelle with keen interest, unphased that her legs are spread and her pants and panties are bunched lewdly at her knees. Her cunt is glistening in the early morning sun, slick just from this.

Raelle can’t breathe. If they’re going to stop, it has to be now. But Raelle doesn’t want to stop; they’ve crossed the Rubicon. There’s no going back.

Raelle lunges forward, spreading Ms. Ramshorn’s outer lips and licking a long stripe from the bottom of her centre to her top. They both moan, Ms. Ramshorn throwing her head back, exposing the long pale expanse of her neck.

Raelle is shaking, knees digging into the earth as she settles more fully on the ground in between Ms. Ramshorn’s spread legs. Raelle’s so close she can smell her, hot and musky and delicious. 

As she moves forward, the grass prickles her arms, a squalid reminder she’s eating her boss out, right in the middle of a field where anyone could see. Just the thought of being so exposed, _so debauched,_ makes Raelle quiver, a stab of hot need racing through her.

She leans into her work, looping her arms underneath Ms. Ramshorn’s thighs, licking her from the base of her slit to the crest of the labia. A third lick and her tongue pressed just slightly harder, swirling her tongue over Ms. Ramshorn’s clit.

"Fuck," Ms. Ramshorn gasps. She presses her cunt hard into Raelle’s mouth. "That’s good. Stay there. Keep going."

Raelle groans against her slick skin, lapping the tip of her boss’ clit ruthlessly. She couldn’t give a fuck about finesse. When Raelle is first with a woman she likes to tease, build her up until she’s a quivering mess underneath her. But not now. The urgency is overwhelming. She can’t stop.

Ms. Ramshorn gasps. She looks a little disheveled as she pants, her cheeks flushed the prettiest pink. Every so often she licks her lips, almost nervously. She’s so divine, so perfect, and Raelle needs more than anything to make her come undone.

She purses her lips around Ms. Ramshorn’s clit before descending on it with her entire mouth, her tongue driving deep as her cheeks hollowed and sucking as hard as she can. 

" _Yes_ ," Ms. Ramshorn hisses, pushing Raelle’s head down. "Suck on my clit."

Fuck. Raelle whimpers, pressing her own legs together, just to relieve a bit of pressure between her thighs. She sucks as hard as she can, again and again, pausing only to draw in the briefest of breaths before diving back in.

"Raelle," Ms. Ramshorn rasps. She lifts her hips up, grinding herself ruthlessly against her mouth. "I want you inside me."

Oh, Sweet Jesus. Just those words make Raelle shift against the grass. It’s taking all her willpower not to rub her hips against the dirt. It’s embarrassing enough humping herself to completion against the mattress, but in a paddock? Like some animal? She can’t. 

So, she focuses on Ms. Ramshorn instead. Raelle eases a finger into her entrance, moaning at just how easy it is to slide inside her.

"Raelle," Ms. Ramshorn groans, hips bucking. "Another finger."

Normally fucking a woman with two fingers straight away is a bit of a stretch. But Raelle is amazed at how easily her boss takes it. She feels amazing, all hot and tight as Raelle begins to shallowly fuck her in earnest.

Ms. Ramshorn whines, eyes slammed shut, a hand holding onto her hat while the other pushes Raelle’s head down, keeping her pinned in place. Raelle can sense her urgency, can see it in the way her brows are knotted and how her tongue keeps darting out to lick her lips. Raelle starts to fuck her harder, curling her fingers, the tips rubbing at her inner walls while continuing to suck and lick her clit.

"Good girl," Ms. Ramshorn gasps. "That’s it." She threads her fingers into Raelle’s hair, twisting almost painfully. "I knew you’d be good at this."

Ms. Ramshorn thought of this, of _them_ , before? Raelle moans, closing her eyes, fucking into her harder now, sinking her fingers right up to her knuckles.

Something must snap within Ms. Ramshorn then, because she moans loudly, wantonly, grinding her cunt into Raelle’s face, again and again. She's _riding_ Raelle, seeking her own pleasure against her lips and chin, pushing her down onto her cunt ruthlessly. 

Raelle whimpers, trying to keep her rhythm with her fingers even as her arm and wrist are being crushed into the earth.

Somehow, inexplicably, Raelle isn’t in control anymore.

"Raelle. Look at me."

Their eyes meet. Even in the morning sun, Ms. Ramshorn’s eyes are as dark as sapphires. 

Raelle has never wanted anyone more.

It takes a few more hard thrusts against Raelle’s face before she throws her head back. She moans loudly as she comes around Raelle’s fingers and on her face, her inner walls clenching and releasing for what feels like an age.

Raelle fucks her through it as best she can, sucking and licking her clit until her bosses’ legs are twitching with gentle aftershocks. 

Finally, release. Ms. Ramshorn flops back into the grass, her whole body shaking. She somehow still looks put together, despite the fact her legs are sprawled apart and her pants and underwear are pulled down to her knees.

The small part of Raelle’s brain that isn’t completely lust-addled knows they should talk. That maybe they’ve gone too far and Raelle will be back on the road, traveling to Boston with her tail between her legs. 

But right now, she doesn’t give a fuck about the consequences. The dull ache between her thighs is too deep to ignore.

With a contented sigh, Ms. Ramshorn pulls up her pants and underwear. She doesn’t bother to do up her fly and instead drags Raelle up until she’s lying on her side next to her on grass.

Raelle shivers. Her arms are smudged with dirt and sweat while her face is slick with Ms. Ramshorn’s enjoyment. Raelle’s face grows hot when she realizes how debauched she must look. How utterly used and fucked. It makes her squirm a little against the grass. She can almost feel Ms. Ramshorn’s wetness glinting in the sun. She goes to clean herself off, but Ms. Ramshorn stops her with a firm grip of her wrist.

"No. You look lovely the way you are." She reaches inside Raelle’s overalls. She drags her fingers along Raelle’s tatty bra, across her nipples, which stiffen at the touch. "You were so good for me. So good. Now, I’m going to make you feel good in return." Her voice drops. "Spread your legs for me."

Raelle whimpers, heat pooling between her thighs. She lies on her back, the grass and dirt prickling the back of her neck, and spreads her legs. 

Ms. Ramshorn smirks, shifting to lie on her side next to her, propping her head up with her hand while the other one reaches inside her overalls and straight into Raelle’s boxers.

"Holy shit!"

"Just relax," Ms. Ramshorn soothes. She shuffles forward, licking the shell of Raelle’s ear. "Thank you for not wearing a shirt underneath your overalls, Raelle. It’s like you wanted me to have such easy access." She starts to slide her fingers along Raelle’s folds, easily finding her clit and pressing down. "Did you want this? Did you think about me touching you?"

"Yes," Raelle whimpers, trying to grind herself against Ms. Ramhorn’s fingers. There’s a steady, wet drumbeat between her thighs, and Raelle knows, she just knows, she’s not going to last long.

"Have you touched yourself thinking about me?"

Raelle arches her back, her hand gripping the earth around them. "Yes."

She feels Ms. Ramshorn smile against her ear. "Did you want to be fucked, right here in the middle of my paddock? All hot and needy, just like this?"

_"Yes."_

"Good girl." Ms. Ramshorn picks up the pace, swirling her fingers around Raelle’s clit with precision. 

"Please," Raelle pants. She isn’t sure what she’s asking for, exactly. "Please, please, please."

"It’s all right Raelle," Ms. Ramshorn purrs, pushing down just a little harder. "You call me ma’am, if you like."

 _Fuck._ It’s enough to push Raelle over the precipice, coming hard and hot all over Ms. Ramshorn’s fingers. The pleasure is intense, rolling over her again and again, hot and intense and raw until Raelle is finished, falling back into the long grass, boneless and shaking like a startled horse.

Ms. Ramshorn slides her fingers out of Raelle’s boxers before bringing them up to her mouth. Raelle feels a tiny shiver of want run through her as she watches Ms. Ramshorn lick her fingers clean. 

"That was lovely. You’re every bit as good as I hoped you would be." Ms. Ramshorn cups Raelle’s face, bringing their mouths together in a languid, deep kiss. Raelle groans into her mouth, whimpering as she tastes herself on Ms. Ramshorn’s tongue. "Let’s discuss this further at dinner."

Then, with a wink and a wicked smirk, Ms. Ramshorn gets up, dusts herself off and waves goodbye, leaving Raelle shivering and whimpering in her wake.

***

This was how it started; later that evening with Ms. Ramshorn sitting Raelle down with an uncharacteristically serious expression on her face, telling Raelle she’d like to play a little game.

"I didn’t hire you with this in mind, but I think we’d both be lying if there wasn’t a... spark between us. And... I don’t want to pressure you, Raelle, but I think you feel the same way. Want the same things. And if you do, well… Why don’t we make a game of it? The only caveat is… I want you to do what I say. You can always say no, of course. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to, but… if you agree to play, I’m in charge. Of _everything_." 

Ms. Ramshorn sounded so in control, so sure of herself. Raelle would be certain she was feeling no nerves at all, if it wasn’t for the almost anxious way she’s playing with her fingers. 

"What do you say, Raelle?" Ms. Ramshorn continues. "Do you want to play a game?"

So that is how Raelle ended up on her knees in the living room a week later, her head between Ms. Ramshorn’s thighs.

"Gentle, Raelle," Ms. Ramshorn chides, tugging at Raelle’s hair. She’s sitting on the edge of the chaise longue, wearing a pale blue sundress that’s hiked up around her waist so Raelle can get between her legs. "Not everything is a race."

Raelle shudders, nodding her head bashfully. Ms. Ramshorn smirks, apparently satisfied with the contrite look on Raelle’s face. She hooks her ankle, still clad in knee high-socks, around Raelle’s neck, pulling her into the heat between her thighs. Raelle moans, going back in, willing herself to stop being greedy and take it slow.

It’s like this every night after dinner. Raelle, dropping to her knees on the living room floor and eating Ms. Ramshorn out. Sometimes it takes an hour or more, but Raelle wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it _is_ hard to ignore the dull, wet throb between her own thighs.

"That’s better," Ms. Ramshorn sighs as Raelle tongues her clit in long, looping circles. 

From Raelle’s vantage point, she can appreciate the sharp cut of Ms. Ramshorn’s jaw as she throws her head back, luxuriating in the sensations. Her legs are perched on the ottoman, spread wide so Raelle lavish attention where she needs it most. Tonight, like many other nights, her boss hasn’t bothered to wear underwear. 

"Good girl. Keep that rhythm up."

Raelle moans, pressing her own legs together to ease the ache. She has to put her own pleasure out of mind; right now, Ms. Ramshorn is all that matters. 

She swirls the tip of her tongue of Ms. Ramshorn’s clit, careful to avoid putting too much pressure, before running the flat of her tongue down the length of her. She alternates between light swirls of her tongue and a gentle, teasing suction. Ms. Ramshorn is so wet and hot and slick; Raelle can’t help but groan when she dips her tongue inside her cunt, greedy to taste her again and again. 

Raelle feels so vividly alive; it’s like her whole life has been leading to this very point; on her knees in the Ramshorn Residence, her boss's legs clamped around her head like a vice.

She loses track of time when she's buried against Ms. Ramshorn's slick heat, but eventually her boss lets out a sharp hiss, her heel pressing hard against Raelle's back. " _Now_ , Raelle."

Raelle grunts, fingers sinking into Ms. Ramshorn’s thighs, trying to ignore the urgent ache between her own legs. She takes Ms. Ramshorn’s clit into her mouth and sucks _hard_. Ms. Ramshorn cries out, twisting Raelle’s hair so hard it almost hurts as she ruts against Raelle’s mouth. 

Raelle could do this forever, but she knows what Ms. Ramshorn needs. She licks with renewed vigor, pressing her face fully against Ms. Ramshorn’s cunt, letting her boss grind against her with wild abandon.

Suddenly Ms. Ramshorn’s eyes snap open, looking down at Raelle’s with a heavy-lidded gaze, before crying out so loudly it makes Raelle shiver all down to her toes. 

Raelle eases her through it, licking and sucking as Ms. Ramshorn comes down from her high until finally she pushes Raelle away. She sags back into the couch. 

She's so beautiful, Raelle thinks, all flushed and luminous. Like a Botticelli painting, rendered spectacularly to life.

"You're very good at that," Ms. Ramshorn pants, eventually. She smooths her dress down, wiping away a few stray beads of sweat, gathering her composure for what comes next. 

"Raelle. Get up here."

Raelle has to bite back a moan.

Her cunt is throbbing as she scrambles onto the chaise longue. She's a little in awe of how quickly Ms. Ramshorn can pivot, how much she enjoys stoking Raelle's desire.

Her clothes are pulled off and discarded. 

"On your hands and knees." 

Raelle groans, maneuvering herself on the couch right where Ms. Ramshorn wants her. 

Raelle sucks in a ragged breath. She can feel her bosses' slickness smeared all over her. She resists the urge to wipe her face clean. Ms. Ramshorn likes to see the remnants of her own pleasure soaking Raelle’s cheeks. 

"Good girl." 

She groans as Ms. Ramshorn drags her fingers teasingly down Raelle’s spine before resting them playfully on her ass.

Raelle whimpers again, her skin all flushed in the tepid evening air. She's acutely aware of her own nakedness when Ms. Ramshorn's dress brushes the back of Raelle's knees. She spreads her legs wider, encouragingly. She hopes Ms. Ramshorn gets the message. Her boss is a notorious tease, and right now she's not sure she can stand it.

"My, my, my, someone is an eager girl." Ms. Ramshorn’s nails dig into Raelle’s ass. "What do you want?"

"Ma’am. _Please_."

"Please _what_ , Raelle?"

"Please. Touch my clit."

Ms. Ramshorn lets out an eager sigh behind her. She reaches down and toys with Raelle’s cunt, chuckling at the wetness she finds there.

"Mhmmm. Did you enjoy pleasing me, Raelle?"

She did, her embarrassing wetness giving her away. Raelle drops her head, moaning into the pillow. She tries to grind herself against Ms. Ramshorn’s fingers, desperate for purchase, for even the slightest relief. 

She's never felt this slutty before. 

The slap comes out of nowhere, sharp and painful, on her ass. Raelle jerks forward with a gasp. 

_"Raelle."_ She hits her again, so hard the slap reverberates around the room. "Answer me."

"Yes."

Another slap, this one stinging even more than the last. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, ma’am. I did enjoy pleasing you. I _did_."

"Good girl." Ms. Ramshorn says, the heat ebbing from her voice. She strokes Raelle’s inflamed ass soothingly, murmuring soft endearments under her breath, as if Raelle was a gentle, frightened mare. 

Raelle whimpers into the pillows. She can feel the trace of Ms. Ramshorn's hand on her ass, hot and pulsing. It should feel naughty, or degrading to be spread open like this, but frankly Raelle’s past caring about her embarrassment. She’s aching, her slickness coating the inside of her thighs. She’s on the cusp of begging when finally, _finally_ , her boss takes pity on her, circling her clit playfully.

She strokes her for a while, letting Raelle get wetter and wetter before sliding further down.

"Raelle. Are you ready?"

Raelle nods eagerly, resting her weight on her elbows and pushing her ass out. She spreads her legs as wide as she can, ready to be fucked.

"That’s it." Ms. Ramshorn’s fingers glide over Raelle’s entrance. "Look how hot and open you are for me."

The pained moan Raelle makes when Ms. Ramshorn finally enters is obscene.

She shifts on the lounge, trying to regulate her breathing. Taking Ms. Ramshorn’s fingers from behind is still a little challenging. 

"Hey, you’re going great," Ms. Ramshorn murmurs when she finally eases all the way in. She strokes Raelle’s back comfortingly as Raelle whimpers underneath her. "Good girl. You take me so well now."

Raelle flushes at the compliment, her cunt clamping around Ms. Ramshorn’s fingers as the other woman begins to shallowly fuck her. It was only a few days ago Raelle couldn’t endure Ms. Ramshorn fucking her from behind; now Raelle welcomes dull stretch, relishing how full her cunt feels. 

Ms. Ramshorn starts to pick up the pace. Raelle moans, meeting each thrust with a roll of her hips, trying to ignore how mortifying it is to be completely naked while her fully clothed boss fucks her from behind.

A bolt of pleasure runs straight through her when finally Ms. Ramshorn grinds her fingers against Raelle's clit. Raelle cries out, pushing back harder, her orgasm beginning to build in earnest.

"You like that?" Ms. Ramshorn pants.

Raelle nods, turning her head on the pillow, trying to get a glimpse of Ms. Ramshorn. She only catches a brief sight of tousled dark hair and bright blue eyes, when—

The blow is brutal, and it makes Raelle cry out in pain and shock.

"I didn’t tell you to look behind you," Ms. Ramshorn growls, moving her hand away from Raelle’s clit and stilling the fingers buried deep inside her. Raelle's cunt throbs in protest, the orgasm that was building beginning to recede. Raelle buries her head hard into the pillow, mewling pitifully. She's so frustrated she thinks she might cry.

" _Please_."

"Please what?" Ms. Ramshorn slaps Raelle’s sore ass again. "Tell me what you want."

"Touch me, _please_ , touch my clit, ma’am, I'll do anything, just—"

It's enough. When Ms. Ramshorn messily grinds her spare hand against Raelle's clit, it's like a lightning bolt to her core. 

Raelle slumps into the pillow, pushing back against Ms. Ramshorn's fingers. Her pleasure roars back and within minutes she's on the cusp; her arousal mounting, cresting inside of her with each deep thrust. The angle is perfect, and it only takes a few more deep thrusts before she tips over the edge, coming hard, again and again, the pleasure wringing all the strength from her body as she collapses in a heap on the couch, twitching and clenching around Ms. Ramshorn.

"Fuck…"

"No kidding," Ms. Ramshorn says throatily. 

Raelle's whine when Ms. Ramshorn pulls out trails off into a gasp when her boss lies down on her back. The pressure is exquisite as Raelle is pressed down into the couch. 

"Raelle Collar... did anyone ever tell you that you're just full of surprises?

***

Sometimes, though, the tenor between them changes, melding into something softer, more intimate.

They’ve just come in from the shower where they spent more time covering each other in kisses than cleaning off the day’s sweat and grime. 

Raelle headed back to her room to get dressed, Ms. Ramshorn to hers. Raelle wasn’t expecting to see her boss again until dinner. She was already planning what to cook—she instructed Bryon to include lamb in this week’s order. She’s thinking, time permitting, she’ll prepare lamb shanks when she hears a knock on her door.

"Hey," Ms. Ramshorn pokes her head around the door. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," Raelle says hoarsely. Sometimes she can’t hide how distracting Scylla—Ms. Ramshorn—is. Her cheeks are dewy from the shower and wet hair is neatly brushed except for a few stubborn strands that fall about her face like wayward vines. She looks so effortlessly beautiful that sometimes it’s just really hard not to stare.

"What’s up?" Raelle asks, hoping her voice sounds steady.

"Just thought I’d say hi," Ms. Ramshorn says, going to sit on Raelle’s bed.

"Didn’t you just see me in the shower?" Raelle teases.

"I’ve found it’s difficult to have a conversation with you when you’re naked. You’re _very_ distracting."

"Likewise," Raelle smiles, turning her attention to her own reflection as she sits in front of her russet colored vanity. Raelle runs a finger through her slick hair, teasing out a few stray knots before beginning to do up her braids.

They sit in silence for a few moments before Ms. Ramshorn clears her throat.

"Raelle. Why do you wear half your hair in braids? I’m just curious," Ms. Ramshorn says quickly, as if embarrassed. "It was one of the first things I noticed about you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Not the first thing. That was your eyes."

"My eyes?" Raelle grins crookedly before flexing her bicep. "I thought you would have noticed these guns first."

"Your _face_ Raelle. I noticed your face first. And the dirty overalls, of course. So." She cocks a lackadaisical eyebrow at Raelle. "Why do you do it? I thought it might be some North Carolina thing, but Byron says it isn’t."

"Yeah, it’s not," Raelle says, ignoring the warm flush in her chest at the thought of her boss talking to Byron about her. "It’s a tradition on my mother’s side. It’s meant to be for protection. I have a lot of combat medics in my family and they wore their braids as a sign of strength and as a charm, so they’d come home safe. I mean, no one in my family has been in a war for generations, but I like it. And… my Mom wore braids in her hair, so I do too."

Ms. Ramshorn nods thoughtfully, curling her bare feet up underneath her as she sits on Raelle’s bed in a loose gray sweater and leggings. She looks young in the hazy, orange glow of the afternoon light.

"I could show you," Raelle blurts out. She flushes when Ms. Ramshorn shoots her a quizzical look. "The braids. I could show you how to do it. If you like." 

"Oh. I’d… I’d like that."

"Okay," Raelle swallows hard. Her heart banging in her chest like a drum. She wills herself to be cool, but it’s like her whole body is ablaze as she gets on the bed. She’s vaguely proud of herself as her hands stay steady as she runs her fingers through Ms. Ramshorn’s hair, watching the dark strands tumble through her fingers.

"Let’s do this," Raelle breathes out, trying to calm her fraying nerves. Even though Raelle’s adept at this, it still takes almost five minutes before she finishes and there it is, one small, delicate braid framing Ms. Ramshorn’s face.

"Do you like it?" 

"It’s gorgeous. Thank you."

Ms. Ramshorn smiles up at Raelle, soft and slow. It’s a different type of smile than normal; there’s no bravado in it, no artifice. Just soft lips and eyes that pierce Raelle straight to the quick.

Ms. Ramshorn is stunning, always, but up close she’s more breathtaking than ever. Every day Raelle notices something different about her; the dip of her clavicle, the curve of her eyelashes, how she scrunches her nose when she laughs. More and more, though, Raelle notices the line between Ms. Ramshorn and Scylla is becoming blurred, like ink spilled across the page.

Raelle reaches down and cradles her jaw. "You're so beautiful, Scylla…"

Ms. Ramshorn pulls her close with a searing kiss that Raelle somehow feels in her bones. Raelle’s about to say something, something intimate and soft that might be hard to shrug off in the morning. 

But then Ms. Ramshorn pushes her down into the bed and Raelle stops thinking about anything at all.

***

Often, though, what passes between them isn’t sweet or soft at all. 

Later that week, Raelle had wandered into the kitchen for a snack after a relatively successful few hours with the horses. 

She's so distracted by the prospect of food she almost missed the harness, lube, and large purple dildo on the kitchen table.

"Uh, ma’am?" she asks Ms. Ramshorn, who is sitting on the kitchen bench with a mischievous look on her face. "I don’t think I can eat that."

"You could suck on it, but that’s for another day."

"Alright," Raelle knows her grin is filthy as she leans against the table. She’s wearing a loose pair of jeans and her favorite gray tank top. Raelle can feel Ms. Ramshorn’s gaze lingering appreciably on her arms. "So, I guess I’m fucking _you_ this morning."

This, at least, is familiar territory. All her past lovers had assumed Raelle would take charge. It wasn’t something she asked for, it was just what her partners expected, and Raelle never bothered to question it. 

"Is that so?"

"Looks like it, beautiful."

"Actually, Raelle. You’ll be _servicing_ me."

"What?"

"That’s right." Ms. Ramshorn hops off the bench, strolling towards the kitchen table in her ruby colored milk maid dress. "Drop your pants and let’s get started." 

And this is how Raelle got to this moment, jeans and boxers around her ankles, panting breathlessly as she drives into Ms. Ramshorn from behind.

"That’s it," Ms. Ramshorn moans, her hand snaking behind her to grip the back of Raelle’s neck. They’re both standing, Ms. Ramshorn with her legs spread wide and her body pressed flush against Raelle’s. "Keep going."

Raelle groans, dropping her head to Ms. Ramshorn’s neck and breathing her in. One hand is underneath her dress, palming roughly and without finesse at her breast, while the other is at her waist, keeping them upright as she pounds into her. 

Raelle bites and nips at her neck before screwing her eyes shut and focussing on keeping a good pace. She wants to let go, rut against her boss like a bull in heat, but it’s become apparent she’s not in control of this. She could be a sex toy, as far as Ms. Ramshorn is concerned. The thought of _that_ makes her moan and shiver against Ms. Ramshorn’s back.

Raelle senses, more than sees, Ms. Ramshorn's smile. "You like this?"

"Yes ma’am."

"Good." She arches her back, pushing her breast encouragingly into Raelle’s palm. "I like feeling you inside me, Raelle."

Raelle whimpers, giving her breast another squeeze, enjoying how it bounces with every inward push. 

The sound of their fucking is echoing through the kitchen, bouncing off the walls and reverberating in Raelle’s ears. The wet slap of her ass against Ms. Ramshorn’s cunt is making it hard to focus, with every thrust bringing a stab of white-hot arousal straight to Raelle’s core. 

"Concentrate, Raelle."

It seems it hasn’t gone unnoticed that her thrusts are starting to get sloppy and unfocussed. 

Raelle grits her teeth. More than anything she wants to service Ms. Ramshorn right. So, ignoring the part of her that’s screaming to fuck her into oblivion, Raelle slows down and widens her stance. She pauses for a second, before surging powerfully forward, pulling Ms. Ramshorn’s hips back and driving the strap-on to the hilt, picking up a steady, deliberate rhythm. 

"Yes!" Ms. Ramshorn tugs at Raelle’s braids. Hard. "Keep going." She takes Raelle’s hand from her hip and drags it between her legs. "Just like that."

They both moan filthily when the tips of Raelle’s fingers slide against Ms. Ramshorn’s centre. She’s so, so wet. So wet that Raelle struggles to find her bearings, her fingers slipping clumsily through Ms. Ramshorn’s slick folds. 

But this isn’t Raelle’s first rodeo; soon she feels the other woman’s swollen clit underneath her fingertips. It’s hard to finger her with finesse, in fact, she can’t do much except grind down desperately, but it works; Ms. Ramshorn’s breaths are coming out as frantic moans as she presses back against Raelle. 

Within minutes Ms. Ramshorn’s cries have begun to take on a desperate hue; she’s close. Raelle's heart begins to race even faster. She wants so badly to please her. She wants to give her the best fuck in her life, make anyone else who came before her a shadow in comparison.

She pulls Ms. Ramshorn towards her by the hip and fucks into her as deeply as she can, grinding hard inside of her at the top of each thrust. It makes them both cry out as they rut together wildly, not caring if the whole damn town can hear them as they fuck.

It only takes a few more thrusts before Ms. Ramshorn comes undone in front of her, shaking and moaning loudly. Raelle holds her close, thrusting slowly and deeply, wanting Ms. Ramshorn to feel it all, to feel every inch.

"Wow," Ms. Ramshorn gasps. She still presses upright against Raelle, stroking the back of her neck with a shaky hand. "That… was excellent." She turns her head, kissing Raelle messily. "As always, you exceed my expectations."

Raelle nods meekly. Now that they’ve stopped, she’s become painfully aware of her own arousal; the ache between her thighs is so deep it makes her knees shake.

"Aw," Ms. Ramshorn disentangles herself from Raelle’s embrace, wincing a little as the cock slips out of her with a lewd pop. "You look keyed up."

Raelle licks her lips, nodding emphatically. ‘Keyed up’ doesn’t begin to describe it. 

"I’d love to help, but I have a meeting in twenty minutes, so…"

"It won’t take that long," Raelle blurts out. She flushes, awkwardly aware of how needy she sounds.

"I want to savor it. I don’t like to rush." Ms. Ramshorn pulls Raelle close, so close the dildo smears a trail of wetness on her dress. "Are you desperate?"

"Yes."

Ms. Ramshorn grabs the toy, grinding the base against Raelle. "Do you want to come?"

Raelle gasps, jutting her hips up. "Yes."

"You will," Ms. Ramshorn brushes her lips lightly against Raelle’s. "Tonight."

"No, please—"

"Shhh," Ms. Ramshorn strokes Raelle’s sweat-slick face. "I’ll take care of you, but you have to trust me. I’ll make it worth your while but…" she digs her fingernails gently into Raelle’s cheek. "Not if you touch yourself before I say so. If you do, you’re not getting off tonight. Got that?" 

Raelle nods miserably. The throbbing between her legs is unbearable. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes ma’am."

"Good girl." Ms. Ramshorn kisses her again, softly and with promise, before stepping away and smoothing her dress down nonchalantly, as if she gets fucked in the kitchen by the help on the regular. "I’ll see you tonight, Raelle.

She shoots Raelle a devilish smirk before strolling away, leaving Raelle standing by the kitchen table, jeans and boxers bunched her ankles, the strap-on still wet with Scylla's arousal. 

Raelle tries to collect her harried thoughts, but the shock makes her brain all fuzzy and scrambled.

One thing is for sure: it's going to be a long few hours. 

***

The rest of the day is excruciating. The throb of need doesn’t go away, no matter what Raelle does. She’s so desperate she’d fuck herself anywhere, out in the fields, in the woods, in the stables, even, just so she can take the edge off. 

But even more than her own base desires, she wants to be good for Ms. Ramshorn. She wants to please her, even now, even when she can’t see what Raelle’s doing.

Dinner is terrible too, drawn and horrible. Ms. Ramshorn is relishing the tease, shooting her smug looks from the corner of her eye, and she talks about her research, seemingly unphased by how Raelle squirms in her seat, the anticipation killing her. 

After their morning interlude, Raelle showered and got changed, but hours later she’s still so wet. Wet enough she’s vaguely scared she’ll leave a sticky residue behind her on the couch.

"Come on," Ms. Ramshorn says tenderly, noticing that for once Raelle has barely touched her food. "Let’s go take care of you."

She leads Raelle up the stairs. 

It’s been a month, Raelle knows the halls well, but she can barely take in her surroundings as Ms. Ramshorn leads her into the bedroom.

She’s never been here before. Like the rest of the house it’s beautiful, but instead of opulent grandeur, it’s a quieter, more rustic space. The hardwood floors are the color of almonds, and there is a large ruby-colored rug covering some of the floor. As Raelle blearily looks around, she can spot a stone-clad fireplace near the corner of the room. There’s a dark-colored bookcase stacked to the brim with books, a workspace full of clutter and a circular chandelier holding five lit candles, but Raelle only has eyes for one thing: the bed.

It’s large, probably a Queen or more likely a King, much bigger than the cramped double Raelle has at home. The comforter is deep red, the color of passion, of blood, and she can’t help but blush deeply when she notices that there’s a mirror bolted on the wall behind the bed’s headboard.

"Just a moment," Ms. Ramshorn says softly. She unlatches the window and pulls back the curtains. 

Raelle’s dazzled for a moment by the moonlight’s milky glow. She catches a glimpse of the balcony outside, sees the whole residence stretch out in front of them, quiet and still.

She swallows, heart racing as she looks to the bed. "What’s going on here?" she says as she spots a small, dark dildo and strap-on laying down on the bed along with a large tub of lube. "Didn’t we do this already?"

"Raelle. Has anyone ever fucked you? With a strap-on, I mean?"

"What?" The question makes her shift her feet. "Why?"

"Because it’s kinda pertinent to tonight’s activities."

She feels irked by Ms. Ramshorn’s tone, although she is not sure why. "Why do you want to know?"

"Okay. We can do this two ways. Either we go downstairs, play a game of checkers, which you know I’ll win, and you’ll have to answer my question anyway, or you can just tell me." She places a tender hand on the small of Raelle’s back. "Please. I want to know if I need to break you in gently."

Raelle shivers, the implications sending a tingle to her toes. "No, I… no one has ever done that. To me."

"No offense, Raelle, but you’ve slept with some very dumb women. Who wouldn’t want to share this with you? Who wouldn’t want to fuck you like this? Anyway, their loss is my gain." She traces a finger delicately across Raelle’s jaw, lingering on the jagged scar on her chin. "Take your clothes off."

Raelle almost swoons, pulling her clothes off with unseemly haste. She’s never done this before. She’s never had a woman fuck her this way. She’s nervous, anxious. Will it hurt? She almost wants to call the whole thing off, but there’s something in Ms. Ramshorn’s eyes, a knowing glint that makes Raelle scramble to lie down on the bed.

Ms. Ramshorn pulls off her clothes and settles next to Raelle on the bed, kissing her deeply. Raelle whines into her mouth, pulling Ms. Ramshorn close. With a sudden jolt Raelle realizes her slickness is coating the inside of her thighs. Raelle squirms against the sheets, a bit embarrassed. It’s never been like this before. She’s never been so turned on so quickly.

"Eager, are we?" Ms. Ramshorn’s grin is filthy as she kisses down Raelle’s chest, taking a nipple between her lips and sucking hard. Raelle groans, pushing herself further into Scylla’s mouth. 

Almost as if she senses Raelle’s impatience, Ms. Ramshorn climbs on Raelle’s lap, straddling her. Raelle’s breath catches in her throat. It’s a glorious sight; Ms. Ramshorn’s dark hair flowing past her shoulders like a canopy, a smile tugging on her lips. Raelle would love to freeze this moment and savor it forever, except she can’t. She’s too greedy, already on the edge from the day’s earlier exertions. She arches her back, grabbing Ms. Ramshorn’s ass, eager for friction.

Ms. Ramshorn grins down at her, triumphant and wild. It’s like she’s relishing Raelle’s desperate state. 

Raelle whimpers, looking up pleadingly as she grinds against the air. She knows she must look like an absolute slut, desperate for anything. But she doesn’t care. She’s about to beg; for the strap-on, for fingers, for _anything_ , just as Ms. Ramshorn slots her thigh between Raelle’s legs.

"Oh, fuck." Raelle groans, grinding against it, eager for any scrap of relief. "Ma’am—"

"You want it so bad? Show me."

Raelle moans, pulling Ms. Ramshorn down into a bruising kiss. She grinds against her thigh, desperately, wantonly. Ms. Ramshorn smiles against Raelle’s lips, not moving at all, content to watch Raelle pleasuring herself against her leg. 

Raelle groans, grinding harder. She deepens the kiss, her blunt nails sinking hard into Ms. Ramshorn’s back as she fucks her leg like a dog in heat. Something rough and feral is stirring within her. She can feel her orgasm building, ebbing closer and closer...

Ms. Ramshorn suddenly removes her thigh, kissing away Raelle’s frustrated whine.

"Do you want me inside you?"

"Yes."

"Do you want the strap inside you?"

"Yes," Raelle’s voice is high and needy. "Please."

Raelle lets out a broken, loud moan when Ms. Ramshorn slips her fingers inside her. Normally it’s a stretch to take two straight away but tonight they slide right to the knuckle easily, slick, and slow. Ms. Ramshorn pumps them in and out a few times before nodding, almost to herself.

"Wait—"

"Trust me," Ms. Ramshorn says, removing her fingers and getting off the bed. 

Raelle is about to protest, because frankly she’s so turned on it almost hurts, until she sees Ms. Ramshorn slipping into the harness, and suddenly, Raelle can’t say anything at all.

Raelle has never seen a strap-on from this perspective before. It looks faintly ridiculous, bobbing between Ms. Ramshorn’s thighs. But then she looks up, sees the heat in the other woman’s gaze, and she realizes, really realizes, that she is about to get fucked in a way she never has before and she’s beyond ready for it.

Ms. Ramshorn grins, the bed creaking under her weight as she gets back on it. She slides her slick fingers against Raelle’s mouth. Her smirk widens as Raelle parts her lips, sucking and licking the wetness from Ms. Ramshorn’s fingers.

Ms. Ramshorn brushes a hand against Raelle’s cheek, noticing how she trembles at the touch. "You’re an eager girl, aren’t you?"

Raelle lets out a wobbly moan, spreading her legs wide in lieu of answering. She shivers, almost shy under Ms. Ramshorn’s heated gaze. 

She hears the lube being applied to the dildo just before the cock breaches her entrance. She whimpers at the strangeness of it all. The first inch of the toy makes her ache, but not unbearably so, and a small part of Raelle welcomes the slight tug of discomfort. But the dull, firm pressure inside her cunt is surprisingly good, especially as Ms. Ramshorn is pushing inside her so slowly, letting Raelle feel every centimeter, every inch.

Ms. Ramshorn lets out a shaky sigh, and Raelle realizes the toy is fully sheathed inside. It makes her moan and squirm bashfully against the sheets. Raelle knows the dildo isn’t big, it’s certainly a lot smaller than the one she fucked Ms. Ramshorn with earlier in the day, but she still feels fuller than she ever has been before. But it’s a good kind of full. She finds she’s wet and desperate for more.

"Raelle," Ms. Ramshorn breathes. She must pick up something on Raelle’s face because she starts to thrust forward gently. "You’re taking me so well. You’re so good. So good. Such a needy girl. Such a needy girl for me."

The praise makes her whole body flush with pleasure. She’s growing accustomed to the fullness, to the stretch. Ms. Ramshorn picks up the pace, fucking her with shallow thrusts that makes Raelle’s toes curl.

"Move your hips," Ms. Ramshorn demands, her voice shaky. Raelle can’t help but stare at the way Ms. Ramshorn’s— _Scylla’s_ —breasts sway with her every thrust. "Move with me." 

Raelle bucks her hips up, and immediately it feels amazingly good, the slight discomfort giving way to a dull, needy ache. They gasp together, finding a jolting, awkward rhythm. Ms. Ramshorns thrusts are hard and deep, but not fast, letting Raelle feel it, feel it all.

Raelle’s hands squeeze Ms. Ramshorn’s breasts, enjoying how it makes the other woman throw her head back. "Fuck… this is so…"

She cries out in frustration when Ms. Ramshorn slows, a devilish smirk on her face that only means one thing: trouble.

Ms. Ramshorn is still buried right to the hilt inside of Raelle, but she’s not moving at all, looking down at Raelle with an eager expression on her face.

"What…"

"Show me again how much you want it."

Raelle swallows, knowing, somehow, just what Ms. Ramshorn wants. She raises her hips up off the mattress, her head digging into the pillows. Raelle flushes as she slowly starts to grind against the toy inside her.

Her skin is prickling with heat, with embarrassment. God, how desperate is she? She’s fucking herself, putting on a squalid little show. 

She must look like a mess, Raelle thinks, biting her lip.

She must look like a whore.

Raelle shivers, rocking desperately, warmth flooding to her cunt. Moving her hips up, again and again, fucking herself on the toy, fucking herself for Ms. Ramshorn.

Ms. Ramshorn growls, her fingers digging into Raelle’s skin, but the stab of pain doesn’t matter; not when Ms. Ramshorn starts to thrust inside her again.

"That was so good, Raelle," Ms. Ramshorn's voice sounds shaky with want as she pumps her hips, in and out. "Now can you... Can you… I want to see you touch yourself. I want to see you get yourself off."

Raelle moans because that must be the _hottest thing_ anyone has ever said to her. Her fingers fumble against her folds before she finds the right spot, grinding hard against her clit.

Ms. Ramshorn moans loudly, so loudly it makes Raelle clench around the toy. She starts to slam into Raelle harder, faster, their heavy pants reverberating around the room, bouncing off the walls and echoing inside Raelle’s head. Below, she can hear the obscene squelch of her cunt getting fucked and somehow that only just turns her on _more._

"Yes, that’s it. You want this. I can tell. I can’t wait until I fuck you exactly how I like. Maybe from behind? Would you like me to do that, Raelle?" Ms. Ramshorn pants. "Maybe I will. Maybe after I have broken you in. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?"

Raelle whimpers, throwing her head back against the pillow and spreading her legs as far as she can. She’s touching herself desperately, her slickness soaking her fingers. Ms. Ramshorn’s words make her feel hot and shy and dirty all at once. "Yes, fuck, ma’am, _anything_."

Raelle cries out, her spare hand gripping the sheet as Ms. Ramshorn thrusts into her as deeply as she can. She’s so close, her orgasm careening towards her. 

The dildo is hitting the right spot, again and again, edging Raelle closer to oblivion as she writhes and moans against the sheets, wanting this to last forever but craving her release. 

She can’t take her eyes off Ms. Ramshorn—off Scylla. Watching her flush crimson with desire. She’s so beautiful, so gorgeous, and in this moment Raelle thinks she doesn’t want to be fucked by anyone else ever again.

 _"Scylla,_ " she moans and then just like that, she falls from the precipice, coming hard around the toy, clenching again and again, waves of pleasure rolling over her, making her cry out hoarsely. It seems to go on for ever as Raelle gasps and writhes, feeling flushed and overwhelmed until finally she collapses naked and shivering onto the mattress, 

She’s so stunned she only winces a little when Ms. Ramshorn pulls out. Her cunt is _soaked,_ and it aches, both with pleasure and a faint, dull throb of pain.

"Hey," two arms envelope Raelle, pulling her close. When she looks up she sees two eyes, bluer than the bluest sky, looking down at her with faint concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. That was… wow. That was amazing."

"Yes, it was," Scylla nuzzles Raelle’s neck. "Thank you for letting me do that."

"Thank you for the… you know.. The best freaking orgasm of my life."

"The best, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head." Raelle says drowsily, enjoying her post orgasm high. She gestures vaguely. "Do you need me to…"

"No. That was enough for me. Seeing you like that… that’s enough."

"Cool," Raelle sighs. Sleep is making her fuzzy and slow, but she knows she must get back to her room. They’ve been fucking regularly for more than three weeks. Sex between them is hot and debauched in ways that makes Raelle shudder, but one thing remains constant; Ms. Ramshorn always leaves straight afterwards. 

Raelle is still trying not to take it too personally. 

"Where are you going?"

"To bed. I’m exhausted."

The other woman looks down at Raelle, chewing her lip, an odd, vulnerable expression flitting across her face. Ms. Ramshorn is usually playful, or incorrigible, after sex. But she’s never tender, never soft. But now she’s looking at Raelle with such gentle longing. It brings into sharp relief what Raelle has known for weeks now: she’s no longer _just_ Raelle’s boss.

Scylla is something much more than that.

"Raelle," Scylla says, her voice halting and bordering on shy. "Will… will you stay with me tonight?"

"Yes," Raelle says, too sleepy to think of the implications of her words. She burrows her face against Scylla’s chest, seeing out the warmth from her embrace. The scent of her is everywhere, it forms its own blanket over Raelle's skin. 

"I'll stay with you tonight Scylla. Of course I will."


	3. Yearnin' For You

Raelle would be okay if every morning started like this.

Scylla had woken her with a kiss to the ear and her hand sliding between Raelle's thighs. It didn’t take long for Raelle to be moaning and writhing in the sheets as Scylla slid down her body, her eager hands and brilliant mouth bringing Raelle to the edge, again and again. She almost cursed when Scylla moved away from Raelle’s cunt, licking her lips so prettily and asking if she’d like to try something new.

So here Raelle is. Naked at 7:30am in the morning, about to ride Scylla’s newest strap-on dildo like a mare in heat.

"Fuck," Raelle moans, hovering over the toy. 

"That’s it," Scylla sighs. She’s naked too, propped up on her pillows, an arm thrown behind her neck while the other gently holds Raelle’s waist. "Go on, you’ll enjoy it. Promise."

After half-an-hour of teasing, Raelle is pretty sure she’d enjoy anything, but she sends Scylla a shaky smile as she rubs her clit against its fat tip. It’s bigger than the one they’ve been using for the past three weeks, but Raelle is so wet—keyed up from being edged until she’s half mad with need. 

Raelle balances precariously over Scylla, positioning the dildo so it’s nudging her entrance just so. Now that she’s here, it’s almost impossible to go slow, the anticipation of the moment making her pant with want. 

She lowers herself steadily, feeling the strap push gently inside. The first inch still aches a little; but god, it’s absolutely worth it as she slowly slides down the first two inches. Even though she isn’t fully sheathed, the new dildo feels enormous. With a moan, she eases back up, her cunt still adjusting to the hot, deep stretch.

"Raelle," Scylla breathes. She’s staring at Raelle, her soft lips parted and eyes wide, as if just the _sight_ of her strap, sliding in and out, is driving her wild. She reaches to her bedside table, fumbling around for a moment, before grabbing her glasses and slowly putting them on.

"What?" she smirks as Raelle shudders. "I don’t want to miss a thing." She sighs, throwing a head back on the pillows, a self-satisfied smile on her face. "Continue."

Raelle groans, hot and flushed all over at being _on display_ for Scylla. She bites her lip, trying to concentrate, overcome with a desire to give Scylla a show she won’t ever forget.

She sighs, lowering herself down. The hot slide feels incredible, stretching her in the best possible way. Scylla seems to be enjoying herself, her eyes darting from Raelle’s flushed face, to the cock that’s filling her up, inch by inch.

Raelle can barely handle it. The dildo seems to stretch and go on forever, the thickness of it making her gasp. She almost wants to call it off, to request something smaller, but she can’t, not when it feels so good. 

And she’s ready for it; she’s wet and eager, her need to be filled eclipsing her fear.

They each moan as she slides down all the way, taking the dildo to the hilt. It’s so large, making her feel fuller than she’s ever been in her entire life.

"Fuck," Raelle whimpers, her hands flying forward to rest on Scylla’s stomach. "Scyl. It’s so big."

"I know," Scylla soothes, running her hands up Raelle’s back. "But don’t worry." She cants her hips up. "You can take it."

Raelle gasps, falling forward a little, clenching hot and hard around the toy. She feels so full, almost overwhelmingly so, but she wants to be good. She wants to take it. She knows she can.

She leans forward, her placing her hands on the pillows either side of Scylla’s shoulders before rocking her hips forward.

Fuck. The pulse of what that shoots through her is incredible, salving the deep ache inside. She starts to ride the dildo, hesitant at first, before finding her own fitful rhythm, the slow grind making her gasp and shiver.

Scylla groans. She’s gritting her teeth like it’s taking all her willpower not to thrust up, to fill up every inch of Raelle and claim what’s hers. "Good girl. There you go. You look so fucking hot for me."

"Oh God," Raelle sighs, getting more used to the sensation with every gentle rock of her hips. 

She glances up and sees the mirror just above the headboard. She almost doesn’t recognize herself. Her face is crimson, her blonde hair a wet smear across her forehead. Her braids, lovingly done up last night, are unraveling. Her breasts are shaking with each desperate roll of her hips, and she’s biting her lip, trying in vain to stop her broken moans from escaping. But more than anything, she looks utterly fucked; flushed and wanton, greedy for pleasure.

Greedy for Scylla, always.

"Scyl…"

A slap, hard and sharp, on her ass. Raelle chokes, clenching around the toy.

"What do you call me?"

"Ma’am." She moans as Scylla spanks her again, mercilessly. "Sorry, ma’am. I won’t do it again."

"I know you won’t." Scylla’s eyes fall to Raelle’s breasts. "Touch yourself."

The spike of pleasure is deep and gratifying as Raelle starts to palm her tits, thumbing both nipples roughly. If the dildo made her cunt ache before, it doesn’t now, the stretch stoking her pleasure. She whines loudly, grinding on the toy and squeezing her breasts hard.

She can’t quite stand to look at the mirror, too shy all of a sudden to see her debauchery reflected back at her. So, she focuses on Scylla instead, who is panting underneath her, her eyes devouring every inch of Raelle’s sweat-slicked body.

"Can’t stand to look at yourself?" Scylla rasps. Raelle thinks she’s trying to be smug, but she sounds out of breath instead. "That’s okay, Raelle, I’m looking at you. I’m looking at all of you."

Scylla’s eyes have flitted downwards to where they’re joining together. Raelle flushes, self conscious about what Scylla must see. The cock when Raelle eases up, the way it parts her slick, swollen folds and disappears, fat, inside of her.

It’s too much, she’s overcome, slumping against Scylla, wanting to feel her skin. Scylla sighs, pulling Raelle close until there’s nothing between. Raelle whimpers, lost in the sensation of Scylla’s slick body sliding against hers. She starts to rock forward, fucking herself on the cock.

Scylla gasps, cupping Raelle’s cheek and pulling her close, close enough that her breath dampens Raelle’s cheek.

"Are you ready?"

Raelle moans, nestling her check against Scylla’s neck, grinding hard against the toy. She’s ready, beyond ready, ever since Scylla woke her up this morning with that glint in her eye.

The first, domineering thrust of Scylla’s hips makes Raelle cry out. Scylla wraps an arm around Raelle’s back, the other resting on her sore, throbbing ass as she thrusts up, again and again, setting a brutal rhythm that makes Raelle’s toes scrabble against the sheets. Raelle can’t move, can’t think, can just feel Scylla pounding hard inside her. Raelle leans into the pressure, resting her cheek against Scylla’s clavicle, at the mercy of every wet thrust. Her moans are masked by Scylla’s groans of pleasure as they move together in one rough wave. 

Scylla grabs a handful of Raelle’s hair, jerking her head away from her chest. Her gaze bores into Raelle with an intensity that makes her whimper, makes her feel warm all over. She used to think Scylla’s eyes were like the ocean, but now Raelle thinks they’re more like the bluest part of a flame; hot and gorgeous all at once.

"Ma’am… I need… I need… Scyl, _please_."

Scylla is nodding, pulling Raelle into a desperate, hard kissing before pushing her away. Raelle sits upright, hands splayed on Scylla’s stomach, riding her cock with everything she’s got.

She almost comes on the spot when Scylla grinds her fingers against Raelle’s clit.

"Keep going," Scylla pants, licking her lips, glasses slightly askew. They’re both blushing at the slick sound of Scylla’s fingers frantically stroking Raelle’s clit. "God, you look so good, Raelle. I could watch you ride me every day. Would you like that? Bet you would, you needy slut." 

Raelle moans, throwing her head back towards the ceiling, eyes slamming shut. She’s close to the edge, grinding against Scylla’s cock and fingers, chasing her release until suddenly it overwhelms her; she comes with a loud, wild cry, clenching around the strap, the waves of pleasure so sharp it almost hurts. 

She writhes hard and hot around the strap until, with a strangled moan, she slumps forward, resting her sweaty head on Scylla’s chest, panting but sated, shivering and whimpering from the dull aftershocks of her pleasure.

Finally, it’s done. Raelle sighs drowsily, her mind is blissfully empty as Scylla pulls her close, chuckling into Raelle’s hair.

"What’s so funny?" Raelle asks when her mind has finally, _finally,_ stopped buzzing. She nuzzles Scylla’s neck, liking how damp her skin is beneath Raelle’s lips.

"Nothing. Just… we’re pretty good at this."

"We are."

Now that the heat is gone from her gaze, Scylla looks very cute, with her fogged up glasses and mussed hair. The single, small braid Raelle knotted is falling against her cheek. Raelle feels affection well in her chest at the sight of it.

Scylla groans all of a sudden. "I have to go to work soon."

"Me too. My boss is a real hard ass."

" _Your boss_ is still inside you."

Raelle whimpers at that, shifting a bit. She’s become used to the pleasing thickness of the dildo. She almost wishes she could stay here forever; connected so intimately with Scylla, cocooned in the warmth of the bed and her embrace.

Except. Raelle's stomach growls, loud enough for Scylla to shoot her a teasing grin. Raelle kisses Scylla's throat, knowing instinctively the moment has passed; that she needs to get up and begin the day. 

"Ugh," she groans, rolling off Scylla. She gasps a little as the dildo eases out of her. "Tea?"

"Mhmmm, I'd love one." Scylla sighs, stretching. She looks like a cat that’s found the only patch of sunlight. She pulls Raelle in for a long, languid kiss. "Thanks."

Even though it’s the first flush of summer, the Ramshorn residence runs cold. Raelle grabs the first article of clothing she can reach; a silk kimono style night robe hanging on a small clothes rack. It’s red with some kind of bird, probably a swan, on it. 

She darts out of the room before she succumbs to the urge to stay in bed and never leave. It's only now, in the first chill of morning, that Raelle feels the remnants of their lovemaking. Her centre is pulsing with a dull, steady ache and every time she moves feels the echo of Scylla inside her. 

She feels ravaged. Used. She finds she doesn't mind it, even though she thinks perhaps she should. 

She’d kill to be wearing jeans right now, but the quicker she gets the tea, the quicker she can return to Scylla and the bed that, with each passing night, Raelle can’t help but think is theirs.

"Jeez," Raelle grumbles under her breath. "Why is it so cold when it’s sum—oh!"

"Morning," Byron replies. He’s standing in the kitchen surrounded by mostly empty grocery bags. "Someone’s had a nice sleep in."

"Uh," Raelle’s blushing, she just knows it. God, did Scylla leave any visible marks on her skin? Raelle pulls the kimono tightly around her, although she knows there’s almost no point since it barely covers anything. "Yeah, just a little one."

"Well, nothing wrong with a good lie in. Is Scylla up?"

"How would I know?"

"Cause you live with her?" He frowns, putting a tub of cream in the fridge. "The coffee isn’t brewed, which is weird. Is she alright? She’s not sick, is she? God, I _told_ her she works too hard, but she never listens to me, even though I am, almost always, _right_."

"I don’t think she’s sick, she’s probably just sleeping." 

Byron looks even more confused, tugging at his suede jacket worriedly. Raelle knows she must salvage this before the situation spirals out of control. She doesn’t know him that well, but Byron does seem the type to barge into Scylla’s room, and... 

_"Tea?"_

"Sorry?"

"Sit," Raelle orders, maneuvering Byron to one of the nearby chairs, quashing the memory of fucking Scylla at this very spot less than a week ago. 

Raelle sends Byron an easy smile, trying to convince him that it’s totally normal for her to be wearing next-to-nothing in her bosses’ kitchen. Raelle knows how to charm her way out of trouble. One cup of tea and she’ll send Byron on his way before going back to the bedroom and making it up to Scylla.. 

"So," Raelle puts the kettle on. "Anything to see in this town? Maybe we should go out one night?"

"Not much around here besides a sad little bar with sad little people in it. There's Maplecroft's, which is actually a pretty good cafe. And a bookstore, but that's about it. It's a bit livelier now because of the tourists, but mostly this is a ghost town. If you want to go somewhere, we may as well make the trip to Charlotte."

"You like those big city lights?"

"I do. And you don't?"

"Not really," Raelle says, and it's only after she said it that she realizes it’s true. "I like the quiet."

"You and Scylla both." He gestures at her outfit, a baffled expression on his normally cheery face. "Sorry, am I still stuck on your ensemble. You’re showing a lot of leg. Not that I’m objecting, if you’ve got it, flaunt it. But, no offense, it isn't very... you."

"What do you mean? I... love... robes."

"Oh. So, you love scandalous silk kimonos that barely cover anything?"

"Yeah. Why do you look shocked? I’m very fashionable." The kettle boils, saving Raelle from further embarrassment. Her face is burning as she pours him a cup. "You better finish this before it gets cold."

"Thanks, buttercup."

"Do not call me that."

"Thanks, sugar plum baby."

"Byron."

"Thanks, honey bun."

"Bryon!" Raelle laughs. "Jeez. Are you ever _not_ an annoying ray of sunshine?"

"Nope, sorry. And are you ever _not_ the grumpiest girl in the room?"

"Nope, sorry."

They share a grin, and Raelle is more convinced than ever that her plan is going off without a hitch, when...

"Raelle?" Scylla’s sluggish voice is coming from the hallway. She pads into the kitchen, looking a little hazy. "Is the tea almost ready? I’m parched… _oh_."

"Oh!" Byron repeats, his mouth dropping comically open. His gaze darts between Raelle, in her tiny silk robe, and Scylla, with her tousled hair and flannel shirt that is very obviously not hers. " _Oh_."

"Byron…" Scylla starts.

"Okay, okay, okay. Wow. I get it. _Plot twist_."

"We were going to tell you," Scylla says, looking pleadingly at Raelle. "But…"

"No explanation needed. I mean, I want all the details now, obviously. But I am thrilled for you guys." He winks at Raelle. "I have noticed Scylla’s been smiling a lot this week. Now I know where all the endorphins are coming from."

" _Stop,_ " Scylla whines, a pink flush coloring her cheeks. It’s adorable. Raelle can’t help but return Byron’s grin, which seems to make Scylla blush more. "Byron, you’re embarrassing me."

"Tea, Scyl?" Raelle asks fondly.

Scylla sends her a sweet, furtive smile as she settles next to Bryon, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Thanks."

"Oh my god, you wench," Byron says to Scylla in a sotto whisper. "How could you keep this from me?"

"Because you have a big mouth."

"Who would I tell? Anyway, I’m ecstatic. She’s a definite upgrade from— _ow._ "

Raelle snorts, putting the kettle on. She didn’t see what happened, but she has an inkling Bryon has a bruise on his shin.

It’s strange, but even though the morning is not going how she planned, Raelle quite likes the domesticity of padding around the Ramshorn kitchen, listening to Scylla and Bryon bicker behind her. It’s homely in a way Raelle didn’t quite expect. "Well, while you guys gossip, I’m going to cook up some breakfast for us. Scylla and I earned it."

"That we did," Scylla says smugly, smirking wider when Byron makes a face.

"But first," Raelle pulls the robe close. "I think I’m going to put on some underwear."

***

The horses are furious at the disruption to their routine, and Raelle can’t blame them. She’s patient, letting them snort and grunt at her as she leads them to the nearest paddock. Chernobog, of course, takes Raelle's tardiness seriously. He whinnies loudly at Raelle with his ears pinned back, looking like he'd like to make paper mache out of her head.

"Hey," Raelle says gently, approaching him from his favored left side. She strokes his shoulder. "I’m going to be around for a little while, so you and me, we gotta get used to each other, okay? Yeah? Let’s make a go of this."

Chernobog paws the ground, looking at her grudgingly, but Raelle can see the taunt lines of his body ease with every stroke of her fingers. 

"That’s it," Raelle soothes, securing Chernobog’s halter gently over his nose. She holds the lead loosely, but firm enough to remind him she’s in charge. "I know I’m not who you want. You’d much rather Scylla be out here doing the morning roundup. I get it. You really like her, don’t you?" She pants his flank, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You know what, Chernobog? I think I might like her, too."

She spends the rest of the morning checking over the chicken coup thoroughly, the day passing by in a pleasant, busy haze. She has a couple of hours to burn before she has to start on dinner, and so she heads upstairs, settling into her chair at her homespun table.

_Dear Dad,_

_Miss me yet? How is everything in Boston? Please tell me you've gotten a real oil drain for the shop, you can't keep using that old bucket of yours. If you haven’t, I swear, I’ll come back and kick it over myself._

_As for me, everything is going well here. I think I’m even winning over Chernobog. I wish I could show you the residence. You’d love it here, it’s so peaceful, and you’re always complaining about Boston traffic._

She pauses, pen hovering over the page, her heart cantering in her chest.

_Also, Dad._

_I have to tell you about this girl..._

***

Scylla doesn’t like to be disturbed while in her study. The only time she allows it is when Raelle brings her daily cup of tea (although Raelle is still not allowed to go past the weird black line), and even then, Raelle is in and out in minutes, barely enough time to steal a kiss or two. But Raelle thinks Scylla is willing to make an exception for a Ramshorn residence bloodbath.

"How did it get in?" Scylla asks grimly.

"That’s what I’m trying to figure out."

They’re standing in the chicken pen. It’s one of Raelle’s favorite parts of the residence - a small, rustic nook that borders on the outskirts of the property. The chickens have plenty of space to roam, plentiful food, and every night they sleep in a charming, wooden pen that could accommodate twice their number.

Now it looks like something out of a war-zone. If one side had guns and the other had sticks. 

Raelle gets down on her haunches and inspects the mess. There are at least four carcasses strewn near the entrance of the pen, and three other chickens are missing. The ground is marred by blood and viscera in the spots where the chickens came up against an unstoppable foe. It’s early, but the sun has been beating down for hours; turns out dead chicken guts smell a hell of a lot like old fish.

"I don’t know how this happened," Raelle says bitterly. She feels like kicking something. She feels like kicking several somethings. "I check this place every day. How the hell did a fox, or a coyote, or whatever, get in?"

"Don’t beat yourself up, Raelle, it’s not your fault," Scylla says, crouching down next to her. 

They’re looking down at a chicken whose neck has been gouged. Raelle could be crazy, but she swears she can see a hint of terror in those rubbery, dead eyes. 

"Not my fault? This is kinda my job, Scyl."

"Predators always find a way in, Raelle. It’s what they do. I’m surprised it’s taken this long. And anyway, when you’re in my line of work you can’t be squeamish about death."

"What do mushrooms have to do with dead chickens?"

Scylla smiles in that slow, languid way of hers. "It has everything to do with it. The more you study what I study, the more you realize it’s all connected. In the kingdom of plants, mushrooms occupy the underworld. Nothing ever really dies. Life becomes death, which becomes life again, over and over."

Raelle stares down at the chicken. Its death feels more like a senseless tragedy than part of some great circle of life. "My mom is really dead."

"Sorry, I know it’s a sensitive subject. I just mean to say that death is more complicated than people think. It’s not so cut and dry." Scylla stares down at the blood slicked hay. Her gaze is distant, like she’s not really looking at the carnage beneath their feet. "It’s how I first grew to love my mother’s work. I took over from her once she died. Not everything at first, but I wanted to continue her legacy. At first I just thought it was the right thing to do, but... it helped me understand what her loss meant. In the grand scheme of things. Mycelium is essential to everything on this planet; it binds it all together, literally. And in return, we nourish it by going back into the Earth." The color has leached Scylla’s cheeks. She looks wan all of a sudden, like butter spread too thinly over bread. Raelle’s heart turns over in her chest. "It’s just how the world works."

"Are you alright, beautiful?"

"Yeah," Scylla shakes her head, as if in a daze. "Yeah.’

"Hey," Raelle cups Scylla’s cheek tenderly. "Why don’t you go inside? I’ll clean up here. Have you had breakfast?"

"No… but I’m not hungry…"

"I know. The dead birds aren’t exactly appetizing. I’ll bring out something later though when I normally come in."

"Yeah, that would be… that would be nice, Raelle."

"No problem," Raelle presses their mouths together softly, cupping her jaw. Scylla deepens the kiss. She tastes like black coffee and sugar and something else, something distinctly Scylla. Raelle circles Scylla’s hip, pulling her close before eventually, reluctantly, pulling away. She’d love to keep kissing her, always. But the stench of the dead chickens is not exactly putting her in the mood.

Scylla returns to the residence, leaving Raelle to deal with the grisly aftermath. There are seven survivors huddling at the back of the pen, clucking incessantly as if calling out to their lost friends. Raelle grits her teeth. Every carcass feels like a rebuke. If only she wasn’t so careless.

She walks the entirety of the enclosure, checking the wire that hems the chickens in. She re-enforced it last week, but she must have missed something. A crack somewhere, a sliver of an opening that let some predator sneak in.

A shard of sunlight catches Raelle’s eye, about fifteen feet to her left. The angle is all wrong; the sun is coming from the east; it shouldn’t be shining in her eyes. She trudges over, inspecting the anomaly.

There are two perpendicular cuts in the fence. They're neat and precise. Large enough for an animal to slip through, but not large enough to be immediately noticed. 

Raelle's mouth sets into a thin line.

It’s clear what happened here.

The wire was deliberately cut.

***

A few days later she goes to see Byron after he finishes work. They meet outside his father’s shop, which is downtown. They head to Maplecroft, which is, like he said, a lovely coffee shop bustling with locals who all seem to know Byron’s name.

Afterwards she goes to sit by the truck of a grandiose, gnarled maple tree. 

She sprawls on the grass and takes it all in. The town is much lovelier than Byron said it was, small, but lovingly taken care of, with its redbrick buildings, wide main street, ornate Victorian-era wrought iron lamps, and large elegant clock tower at its centre. It’s the kind of place that feeds off tourists; Raelle's lost count of the kitschy novelty shops and almost-too-twee Ma and Pa eateries serving local delights. Still, she likes it; it’s warm where Boston is so damn cold.

Tally would love it here, too. Raelle smiles to herself, pulling out her phone, pleased to see she has reception.

It only takes two rings for them to pick up the video call.

"Wait, who is this? Wrong number, sorry call back later?"

"Don’t be a dick, Abigail," Raelle grins. Even though her phone is old and her screen is small and smudged, it’s a relief to see their happy faces. Just like she thought, they’re over at Tally’s apartment, watching reruns of _the Bellweather Season,_ that awful reality television show starring Abigail’s cousin, Charvelle. 

"Don’t be a dick? _Don’t_ be a dick? Tal, are you hearing this? This joker over here is telling _me_ not to be a _dick_ when it’s been radio silence for more than two months. We thought you were taken by a cult."

"What is up with you guys and cults? There are no cults here. Hi, Tally. It’s good to see _you,_ at least."

Tally raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Hi Raelle, we’re so happy you called, but Abi’s right. You didn’t get in touch with us for so long! We were worried. Your Dad was getting letters, but…"

"Letters can be forged. We needed proof you weren’t being forced into indentured servitude by some banjo-playing hick. If you didn’t call for another week, we would have gone down to see you."

"Rae, Abigail was readying the jet."

"You better believe I was. What’s the point of having a private jet if you can’t use it to save your friend from a cult?"

"Okay, okay, I get it," Raelle laughs. "I’m sorry, I should have been in touch sooner. I’ve been busy, but, still. I’ve missed you guys, and I’m sorry."

"Apology accepted, right Abigail?"

"Yes, I suppose. She’s still a shitbird, though."

Tally rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, flashing Raelle a cheerful, dimpled grin. "What have you been up to today, Raelle?"

"I’ve been out with my friend. I met him at the residence, he delivers groceries. He’s been showing me around the town." She flips her phone around, so they can see the main street. "You probably can’t see much, but it’s pretty here."

"It’s pretty," Abigail agrees grudgingly. 

"What’s the job like?" Tally asks.

"It’s incredible. The residence is so beautiful. The property is massive, it means there’s always something to do but at the same time it’s… peaceful."

"Yeah, it’s pretty and all, but small town, no internet, no tv, bet you can’t wait to come back," Abigail says.

Raelle feels her heart lurch. She pulls at the grass by feet. "Actually, uh, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about… what… what if I don’t want to come back?"

 _"What?"_ they both say in unison.

Abigail recovers first, lifting her head up in that fierce way of hers, and Raelle braces for the onslaught.

"Are you telling me you want to stay in some no-name, tiny town, away from your family, away from your friends, away from civilisation at large, what, 'cause you like the job? I applaud your dedication, Raelle, but let’s not go overboard. You’re needed here."

Is she? Raelle’s been drifting from one job to the next for years, never happy, never satisfied. Working with her dad has been a welcome change of pace, that’s true, but dissatisfaction clawed at her, even there. Even when she knew she should be happy.

"Abigail, just hear me out…"

"I’m sorry, now we’re definitely flying down because clearly the country air has done something to your brain. You can’t stay there, Raelle, your life is here, with us, and—"

"There’s a girl, isn’t there?" Tally says knowingly.

Raelle swallows hard. She knows her face is giving her away.

"Oh my god, of course, this makes total sense," Abigail says. "You’ve been holding out on us. Okay, who is she, how d'you meet her? At the village? You did, didn’t you? Oh my god, Raelle, be honest. You weren’t having coffee with some guy today, you were off banging a hot shopkeeper."

"Well… uh, what if I told you guys it’s not the shopkeeper, or anyone in town? It’s... um. Scylla."

The silence stretches for so long Raelle actually shakes her phone to check she still has reception.

"Do you mean to tell me," Abigail says finally, her voice shaking with disbelief. "That you are screwing the little old lady who is employing you? Have you lost your mind? I know you’re kinda slutty, Raelle, but there are limits."

"Abigail, let her talk, she might not be that old…"

"Guys! She’s our age! She’s _our age_ ! And she’s brilliant, and amazing, and kind of a genius and the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. And she _needs me_. I think she does, anyway."

"Oh my god," Abigail nudges Tally’s shoulder fondly. "She has the same dumb expression on her face as you do when you talk about your new man."

"You kinda do, Raelle. You really are glowing." Tally smiles sweetly. "You must really like her."

Raelle ducks her head. It’s a relief, not just to hear her friend’s voices but to air the thought that’s been building inside her for weeks, the growing realization that she’s in too deep, that this isn’t some fling to enjoy and then forget. That somehow between the sex and the passion and the late nights Scylla has snuck through the cracks in Raelle’s heart.

"Guys." Her vision blurs at the edges. "I think I really, really, really like her."

"Okay," Abigail says seriously, picking up the glass of whatever she’s drinking and holding it in that imperious way of hers. "We got time, Rae. Why don’t you start from the very beginning?"

***

She’s cleaning up after dinner when she hears a knock on the door. Scylla has gone up to the study to work for another hour. She’s behind in her research; Raelle’s at least partly at fault for that. The last few days they’ve been taking long lunch breaks together. It’s lovely spending time with Scylla, basking in the afternoon sun and eating sandwiches before retiring to the residence and getting fucked so hard her screams could probably be heard in the next village.

The person knocks again, loud, and insistent.

"Yeah, yeah," Raelle mutters, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder as she reaches for the doorknob "Keep your hat on—"

She inhales the sharp scent of his aftershave before she sees him.

Porter.

He’s standing on the stoop, hair neatly coiffed, dressed in a sharp navy linen shirt and chinos. He smiles at her as if they’re friends. As if it’s totally normal for him to show up, out of the blue, on a random Monday evening.

"Hi, Raelle. How are you?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

She peers behind his shoulder. There’s a flashy GMC Sierra parked in the driveway. It doesn't have a single dent in it, and Raelle is reminded of the jackasses who come into her father's shop. The kind of men who discard a perfectly good truck the minute it loses its new car sheen.

"I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry about that. And see? I’m at the front door, just like you asked."

"Okay. Do you want a medal? What are you doing here?"

"I want to talk to Scylla. She’s here, right? Up in the study?"

He moves to walk past her. Raelle stands her ground.

"I gave her your card. She ripped it in two. You’re not getting your job back."

"I don’t care about the job. I care about seeing Scylla. Let me through."

"Why do you care so much? Read the room, Parker. She doesn’t want to see you."

"She says that now, but she’s changed her mind before. I’m sure you understand. It gets lonely up in this big house."

Raelle grips the doorframe. "Why do you _care_?"

"We have a history."

"Well, what kind of history? Did you go to school together or something?"

"She hasn’t told you anything, has she? Nothing about her childhood? Her parents?" Porter sounds almost pitying. "Look, do yourself a favor. Don’t get too attached." He turns to leave, sending a final, long look up the stairs. "I don’t need to leave my card. Scylla knows how to contact me. And she will. Like she always does. So. See you around, Raelle."

He grins. It’s a mocking, mean smile, shorn of joy. He shoves his hands in his pockets and whistles, actually whistles, as he turns and walks away. 

"Hey. Hey! Preston," Raelle snarls, following him out onto the porch. "Somebody cut a hole in the chicken coup the other day. You know anything about that?"

"Can't say I do. But you should be more careful, Raelle. Wouldn't want to get fired before Scylla gets sick of you." 

Raelle stares at his retreating figure as he gets into his giant, self-aggrandizing truck. "Asshole," she mutters. She bunches her fist, blunt nails digging into her palm. "Fucking…"

Anger bubbles in her chest. Porter is trying to bait her. She knows that. But she can’t help it; his words land like a blow because there’s a kernel of truth in them. Ever since that fateful morning in the field, she and Scylla have fucked constantly, and in ways Raelle didn’t even know was _possible_. But outside their physical connection, how much does Raelle know about her, really? 

Raelle tried to hold back. She tried to maintain the line between boss and employee, tried to keep a distance even when Scylla was knuckle-deep inside her. But she couldn’t help it. She opened her heart and let Scylla in. And for what? What has she got in return? Evasion and sweet words and promises that are never realized.

Fuck that.

Before she can blink Raelle is bursting through the doors of Scylla’s study like she’s storming the Bastille. 

"Raelle?" Scylla blinks owlishly at her from a pile of reports. "What’s wrong?"

"I need to talk to you. And fuck." She points at the crude, dark line at her feet, the spot where no one is supposed to walk past. "I need to go past this line, Scylla, I swear if I don’t, I’ll…"

"Of course. Of course, Raelle. Come here. Talk to me."

Raelle strides forward, so close to Scylla she can see the light from the lamp reflecting from her glasses. "Your former gardener was here. Or should I say your ex? Or both. I think he’s both, wouldn’t you say?"

"What… he was here?"

"Yeah. And he said some weird things to me. What’s going on, Scyl?"

"Hey," Scylla says, reaching out a hand. Her voice is soft, placating, but it only serves to enrage Raelle more. "You don’t have to worry about him."

"No," Raelle jerks her hand away. "You don’t get to duck this one. You either tell me what’s going on, or I’m leaving."

"Alright." Scylla says. She stands up, smoothing her white silk blouse nervously. "But not here." 

She heads towards her bedroom, tugging Raelle along in her slipstream. When they get there, Scylla shuts the door behind them, her mouth turned downwards, deep in thought. 

Raelle bites her lip. She doesn’t trust herself to talk, not sure either of them would like the things she’d have to say. So she watches Scylla as she opens the curtains and unlatches the door, walking out onto the balcony. She lifts her face up to the light; Scylla’s never looked more beautiful than she does now, bathed in the orange and purple hues of dusk. Raelle would reach out to touch her if she weren’t so damn mad.

Scylla grips the balcony railing, staring off into the dimming light. "My parents died on United Airways Flight 332. The crash near Beaufort. I was 16. My mother was presenting a paper in Atlanta. It was meant to be a short trip but… turns out it was longer than anyone ever expected."

Raelle winces. She remembers reading about that plane crash. There was a fault in the plane’s engine. The families left behind received a huge payout. Raelle remembers feeling sorry for the victims, but in that vague, distant way, when it's someone’s else's tragedy.

"I think about it a lot. The crash." Scylla continues. "They say it's over in a moment. The carnage was total, my parents would have died on impact. But I don't think it was quick. I think those thirty seconds, when you're plummeting through the air, when your stomach drops out from underneath you, would have felt like a thousand years."

"I don’t even know what to say, Scylla. I am so sorry."

"My mother was a visionary in her field. Her paper was at the vanguard of antibiotic research. I knew I had to make sure her work wasn't lost. Make sure _everything_ isn’t lost. Anacostia, she knew my father. She ensured I could stay here, took care of me until I was an adult in the eyes of the law."

"And Porter… he grew up with you?"

"Yes. I met him in high school. Byron introduced us. Trust me, he's still apologizing for that. But, despite everything, Porter was there for me when my parents died. When I was… so angry I wanted to burn down the world and everybody in it. I thought maybe he could be a part of my life, but he's disappointed me, again and again."

"I'm sorry Scyl," Raelle threads their fingers together. 

"He doesn't matter. All that matters is the work. I am carrying on my mother's legacy. That’s why I stay here. Why I need to stay here."

Raelle frowns. "You sound like you've never left."

"I haven't. Not since they died. Well, I went to Charlotte to study, but nowhere else." Scylla's voice drops. "It's better this way."

"I want to help you, Scylla. I do. But that stuff Porter said…"

Scylla presses their lips together. It’s an urgent and hard kiss that Raelle feels all the way down to her toes.

"He doesn’t matter, Raelle. He was a one time mistake, that’s all. Not like you. He could never be like you. Nobody could."

She pulls Raelle into a hug. Raelle buries her face in her hair and breathes her in. She’s not angry anymore, quite the opposite. There is something so precious about seeing Scylla, really seeing her, when her guard is down.

"Thank you," Scylla whispers.

"For what?"

"For being you."

Raelle’s not sure what to say to that. She’s not a wordsmith, anyway; not when it comes to things that matter. So, she pulls Scylla close, so close there isn’t a hair’s breadth between them.

She isn’t sure how long they stay there. All she knows is by the time she starts to shiver, dusk has receded into night. She burrows into Scylla’s neck deeper, seeking her warmth.

"Raelle… Is it okay if we don’t make love tonight? Can we... just hold each other?"

"Of course, Scyl."

They don’t say much after that. Raelle feels like a hand is squeezing her heart as she leads them back to the bedroom. She undresses Scylla delicately, one article of clothing at a time, before shucking off her own. Scylla watches her with wide, trusting eyes and when they’re both naked, she lets Raelle guide her to the bed.

Their limbs tangle together in the dark. Scylla tucks her head underneath Raelle’s chin, nestling close. The worry has seeped from Scylla’s features; curled up in Raelle’s arms, she looks young. Content.

Vulnerable.

Raelle kisses her temple. She wishes she could feel the steady beat of Scylla’s heart under her lips. Their bodies are touching everywhere, so much so Raelle can barely feel where she ends and Scylla begins. It should be stifling, it’s still summer after all, but Raelle finds she doesn’t mind it.

"Raelle?" Scylla sounds sleepy.

"Yeah?"

"I’m glad you came here."

Raelle smiles into Scylla’s hair.

"I’m glad I came here too."

***

The days meander on in a long and drowsy fashion, each day similar to the last. Raelle likes it; she likes the routine she and Scylla have, an unspoken schedule that they’ve carved out for themselves. 

Raelle marks the days by the rhythm of the farm. Byron delivers the groceries every Tuesday. The chicken feed delivery comes on Thursday. And on Saturday, Scylla indulges Raelle’s desire to fish; they take Bertie down to the lake where they hire a rowboat, whiling away the hours in their own quiet way. Raelle should be checking her calendar but she can’t bring herself to; every day that finishes is one day closer to her going back to Boston.

"Hey," Scylla calls out, one late afternoon. It must be Friday; the chicken feed delivery guy was here yesterday. "Got a present for you."

"Oh yeah?" Raelle is checking Bertie’s oil gauge. She closes the hood and wipes her greasy hands on her jeans. She stifles a pleased gasp when she turns around. Scylla is clad in her riding gear again, her long, somewhat imposing crop is under her arm, while she’s holding two cups of tea.

Raelle hops on Bertie’s hood, gesturing to the tea. "Don’t I normally do that?"

"You do. But I thought you might be thirsty. You work very hard."

"I have the sunburn to prove it. Thanks," she says, taking the mug from Scylla. The other woman climbs up on the truck, settling next to Raelle. 

They sip their drinks in comfortable silence, listening to the distant chirp of crickets. Raelle casts a wistful look around. She’s only been here two months but already it’s like she’s walked every inch of the farm, memorized each blade of grass and all the sand, dirt and rock beneath her feet. 

"So," Raelle says too brightly, trying to bat away an odd stab of melancholy. "Not that I am objecting to the beverage, but don’t you have a job?"

"Already finished for the week. I got my report in early so I figured I could take the afternoon off. I mean, what are they going to do, reprimand me? I’m the best researcher they have."

"And the most modest."

"The very best researcher _and_ the most modest." 

They laugh. From this close, Raelle can see the tiny dimples on the edge of Scylla’s mouth. She loves to spend long minutes tracing every dip and curve of Scylla’s face, but Raelle must ask the question that’s been bothering her for days.

"Hey, I meant to ask you. I know I should have said something sooner, but, why the line? In the study, the one no one can walk past—"

"You do," Scylla interrupts. "Regularly."

"I know that," Raelle says, rolling her eyes but grinning, pleased all the same. "But why is it there? No offence, but it’s a little weird."

"That’s okay. I have long come to realize I am a deeply weird person." Scylla sighs heavily, in that way she does when she’s thumbing over a difficult memory in her mind. "The study wasn’t like that originally; it was something my mother put in. She took her research very, very seriously. She didn’t want me or my dad in her space when she was working. She was a literal person, so she drew the line. She always did it, in all the cities we lived in."

"All of them? You lived in-"

"Dozens of places? Yes. Doesn’t matter if we were staying in a country for a week or a year. She always needed that line between us and her work wherever she went."

Dozens of cities but none of them home, Raelle thinks. She reaches over and clasps Scylla’s free hand. She doesn’t envy Scylla’s nomadic childhood one bit.

"Your Mom sounded intense."

"She was. Dad would always tease her about it. He thought she was ridiculous, but he respected her boundaries. Didn’t let her get too inside her head." She takes a deep sip of her tea. "He would have liked you."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah. I mean, he got along with everyone, that was literally his job, but he wouldn’t have had to try with you. You would have won him over with that Collar charm."

"Well, it’s gotten me this far in life." Raelle winks, her heart leaping as Scylla laughs. "My mom would have liked you, too. She likes… liked, forthright women. But my dad… he would _love_ you." 

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Hmmm," Scylla’s eyes twinkle. "You should introduce us sometime."

"I’d like that."

There’s a long beat where they just stare at each other, for once at a loss at what to say. Raelle bites her lip. God, it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the impulse to blurt out something reckless. Something like, _come with me, Scylla. Let’s get in Bertie and go. I want you to have coffee with Tally and Abigail. I want you to see my mother’s postcards and share a whiskey with my dad._

But she doesn’t say that. What she says instead is: "Thanks for the tea.”

“My pleasure. I meant to ask you, your friend, Abigail, right? Her last name is Bellweather, is that what you said?”

“Abigail Bellweather. The one and only.”

Scylla screws up her face adorably. “Why do I think I’ve seen her before? Bellweather…”

“Her family is famous. Her mom owns CBS. And her cousin stars in this show, I dunno if you’ve heard of it, the _Bellweather_ _Season_. It’s all about her crazy family. Charvelle, who is Abigail’s cousin, is the star, but the whole family is in it.”

“Abigail, too? Does she like being a television star?”

“Not really. She has a… complicated history with her family name.”

“Huh. But she’s been in it before, right? And you’re her best friend, so… have you been in it?”

For some odd reason, Raelle is embarrassed. She shifts bashfully, trying to hide her blush. “I mean, I am in the background sometimes. And uh…”

“What?!”

“I may have had a few scenes in the episode where Charvelle got married to this dude Ciro. There was this massive buffet table and me and Tally went a little overboard and Abigail got all… yeah, look, let’s just say I am glad I don’t have cameras following me around all the time.”

“Wait, wait, wait, do not change the subject, Raelle. You were actually on a show!”

“I don’t know why you’re so excited, you don’t own a TV—”

“I have to watch it. You have to let me watch it,” Scylla pulls her mouth into a pantomime pout. “Please, Raelle? Please, please, please, please—”

“Okay, okay!” Raelle can’t wipe the grin off her face. “Fine. We can watch it together sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Scylla sighs, resting her head on Raelle’s shoulder.

 _She’s perfect,_ Raelle thinks. She’s never met anyone like her and she doubts she ever will, and the thought of leaving her is suddenly too awful to contemplate.

“Scylla,” her heart is in her throat. "I wanna stay.”

Scylla lifts her head from Raelle’s shoulder. “You do?”

“If that’s okay with you.”

“Yes, _yes_ , more than okay. In fact, I wanted to ask you, but your dad…”

“Has plenty of other workers at his shop. And anyway, I never wanted to work there, not long term anyway. It always felt more like his place than mine.”

“Well then, I would like to formally extend the offer for you to become the Ramshorn Residence’s full time farmhand. The hours are long but the benefits,” she winks, “are pretty great.”

“Yeah,” Raelle says, but her smile is forced. She’s not sure why she’s disappointed. This is what she wanted. To stay with Scylla, indefinitely, to care for the farm and the horses...

But as the farmhand? As _only_ the farmhand?

It’s more than Raelle hoped, but now, faced with the reality, it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.

“Hey,” Scylla says, threading their fingers together. “I know. I care about you too. But can we just… stay like this? Just keep going, like we always have. Can we do that?”

“Of course,” Raelle says, and the beatific smile Scylla sends her is almost enough to quell the worry in the gut.

But as Scylla settles into Raelle’s arms, it’s getting harder and harder to banish the word _girlfriends_ from her head.

***

"I want to play a little game."

"Oh?" Scylla hands Raelle a rum and coke and sits by her on the couch. "Sounds intriguing. What’s the game?"

"Something you know well," Raelle grins, swirling the drink in her hands.

"Oh? You have to be more specific, I’m very good with games."

"Checkers."

Scylla cocks an eyebrow. She looks sumptuous in her black turtleneck, dark jeans, and boots. Her hair is done up in a simple plait, loose enough that bits of it are coming undone, framing her face in an elegant, curling wave. Raelle’s itches to reach out and brush the dark strands away from her face. 

"We played that already. I won. Twice."

"Then you won’t mind playing again. On the same terms."

"Winner gets to ask whatever it is they like?"

"Yes ma’am."

"Mhmm," Scylla takes a long sip of her drink. Raelle is reminded of Nefertiti, lounging on her gold-tinged throne. "You’re on, Ms. Collar."

Raelle takes the game out from the cupboard, blowing the thin layer of dust off the front cover. They haven’t taken it out since the first week Raelle was here. They haven’t needed to; it didn’t take much for Raelle to spill all her secrets.

Raelle sets the game up. Scylla takes black, Raelle white. Raelle has theory she’s testing out as she balances the board on the ottoman between them. And soon her theory is proving to be correct. Scylla is cautious, but obviously playing the exact same strategy as she did the first time. 

Excellent.

Raelle plays recklessly, not letting Scylla settle, sacrificing the smaller pieces she needs to and jumping at every half opportunity that opens up. She acts like she doesn’t want to win, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

Scylla seems puzzled by Raelle’s brazenness but she sticks to her plan: isolate Raelle’s kings and pin her down, just like last time. But Raelle breaks through the middle, surrounding Scylla’s kings in a pincer move. Raelle can’t help but be impressed by her own skill; sure, she got a bit lucky, but she’s not afraid to be bold around Scylla anymore. 

Watching the bravado drain from Scylla’s face is almost reward enough.

"Well, well, well, it looks like I kicked your butt. Ma’am."

Scylla looks aghast as she takes a deep sip of her drink, her throat bobbing like she’s swallowing hard. "You did. You won. Fair and square."

"What was that? Can I have that louder for the people at the back?"

"Watch it, Collar." Scylla says, but there isn’t any heat in her tone.

"So I get to ask you anything? Anything I like?"

Scylla looks a little apprehensive. "Yes."

"Cool." Raelle steadies herself, trying to quash the odd, nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. "I want you to tell me your deepest, darkest secret. Something you’ve never told anyone else, not a soul."

Scylla’s face drops like a stone. "My deepest secret?"

Raelle tries to swallow but her throat is so dry. She can almost taste the charged atmosphere in the air. "Yes. It doesn't have to be emotional… or sexy or whatever. Just tell me something that you have never told another soul. Something you never thought you would share with anyone." 

"Raelle," Scylla’s voice is shaky, her lower lip trembling like a trapeze artist on a string. She draws her body away from Raelle, hunched over and tense and Raelle is one second away from calling it off when Scylla clears her throat.

"I’ll tell you, but you have to promise me you won’t freak out and run away. That you won’t just get into Bertie and I’ll never see you again."

"Scyl. I would never. There is nothing you could say to me that would make me walk away. Not now, not ever."

"Okay... Alright. Alright. I’ll tell you then."

So, Scylla does.

***

Turns out Scylla’s deepest secret is something Raelle can participate in. 

They wait until the next day; Raelle doesn’t trust herself or Scylla to do this after a couple of drinks. But the wait is excruciating; Raelle finds herself staring off into the distance constantly, her mind ruminating over the endless possibilities. A whole day marinating in the filthier corners of her own imagination has left her impatient; it took every inch of her resolve not to nip up to her room and take care of the wet ache between her legs.

"Okay," Scylla says anxiously. They’re standing in the corridor between the bathroom and Scylla’s bedroom. "So, you remember the safe word, right?"

"Broccoli. Nothing sexy about that." 

"Yeah," Scylla doesn’t even crack a smile, more concerned with playing with the tips of her fingers. "If you want to back out, you can. Now is the time. I won’t mind, Raelle, I just want you to be comfortable—"

"Scyl," Raelle takes her hands. "I told you. I want to do this."

"Okay, but you need to know that when I get in there, it’s going to be different from normal. I’m going to say things that I don’t mean. Well, I do mean them, in context—"

"Scylla, I get it—"

"I’m not sure you do. I’m not going to go easy on you. I’m not going to stop unless you say the safe word. And you know… what I want from _you_ , right?"

A shiver runs down Raelle’s spine. She hasn’t been able to think about anything else. "I know."

"Okay, well, if you’re sure, then I guess I better go get ready," Scylla squares her shoulders before kissing Raelle, soft and slow. "I’ll meet you in the bedroom."

The bedroom looks like it does on most nights; the windows thrown open, the royal blue curtains billowing in the cool evening breeze. The moonlight is shining through the window, illuminating the bed in a silvery glow.

Right. The bed.

Raelle could really use a drink right now. Or several. She wants this, she knows she does; the ruined state of her boxers is proof of that, but now she’s here she’s supposed to do, what, exactly? Get down on her knees? Strip? 

Raelle glances at the mirror and sees the trepidation writ large on her face.

God. What if she fucks this all up? What if she ruins this for Scylla? She could stand anything, endure anything, except that.

The doorknob turns. Raelle whirls around, tries to plaster a cheeky grin on her face, when—

Oh, Sweet Jesus.

She thought she’d be used to seeing Scylla in her riding gear, but it takes her breath away, even now. Her brown jodhpurs cling tightly to her legs and she is wearing a sleek, dark show jacket that accentuates the curve of her hips. Underneath is a silk, white blouse, unbuttoned slightly, giving Raelle a tantalizing glimpse of Scylla’s throat. Her hair is done up in a pretty braided bun. She looks gorgeous, like she normally does, and Raelle would think nothing is out of the ordinary except...

Her eyes. Her stern, cold, _commanding_ eyes.

Scylla cocks an elegant eyebrow as she shuts the door behind her. It’s then Raelle notices the black crop in her left hand. It’s different from the one she uses with Chernobog. The shaft is much longer, and the tassel is thin and comes to an end in an almost sinister point.

It looks like a weapon.

It looks like it would hurt.

"Raelle," Scylla’s voice is detached. "Do you know why you’re here?"

Raelle’s mouth is dry. She can’t think, she can’t speak. Her heart is clattering in her chest. Her eyes flit down to the crop. Is she really going to...

"Raelle." Scylla snaps. "Answer me."

"Sorry. Sorry. I, uh, don’t, ma’am. I’m sorry."

"Well, I suppose if you knew what you were doing was wrong, I wouldn’t have to call you here to explain it to you." Scylla bites her lip. They’re as red as blood. "I hired you as my farmhand, did I not? And part of your duties is to bring the horses out on time every morning and return them to the stable every night."

Raelle nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak.

"Well, you haven’t been doing that, have you? I expect punctuality. Today you finished lunch twenty minutes after your scheduled break."

"What? I was only late because I was _servicing_ you."

"So the dereliction of your duties is absolutely fine? What, I should just excuse you because you can’t juggle your obligation to _me_ with your obligations as _my_ farmhand?" Scylla sighs, impatiently tapping the tip of the crop in the palm of her hand. "I see I have indulged you too much. That ends now. Strip."

Raelle hesitates, a low, wet shiver of want running right through her. Scylla slaps the crop against her palm a little harder. 

_Fuck_. Raelle obeys, clumsily undoing the buttons on her brown and white flannel shirt, letting it fall to the ground, before pulling off her tank top. She blushes at the loud clink of her belt coming undone, blushing harder when Scylla smirks.

The jeans come off, then her boots and socks. Scylla stares at her, eyes dark and impatient as Raelle lets her bra fall away from her chest and pulls down her boxers.

"Better. You are lovely, aren’t you?"

Raelle quivers. She feels exposed, all naked and flushed in the moonlight. She hopes Scylla can’t see how hard Raelle’s nipples have become, nor the heat pooling between her thighs. She has an absurd urge to cover herself up, as if Scylla hasn’t seen her like this dozens of times.

"I think the problem is you don’t know your place. It makes you rebellious, Raelle. It makes you wild. And I can’t have a disobedient farmhand, can I?"

Scylla pauses meaningfully. Raelle gulps.

"No."

"Exactly. I see we understand each other. Get on your knees."

_Fuck._

Raelle’s turned on already, but it’s _nothing_ compared to this. Her cunt throbs as she sinks to her knees, the soft floor cushioning her weight.

"Good girl. See? You can be obedient when you try." Scylla toys with the end of the crop. "Now come to me."

Scylla tuts as Raelle moves to stand up. "I didn’t say get off your knees, farmhand. Crawl."

Raelle gapes, indignant. They hadn’t discussed this beforehand. What is Scylla playing at? She’s a fucking adult, not some barnyard animal. She’s not some wild beast that needs to be tamed—

"You could stay there if you like," Scylla shrugs. Her voice is teasing, almost mocking. "I know you like being on your knees. Except, I don’t think you want to disobey me. Deep down, I think you want this. I think you want to please me. I think you _want_ to be broken in. So. In the spirit of cooperation: Crawl." Her voice turns hard. "Do not make me ask again."

Raelle shivers, getting down on all fours. She’s shaking. A tiny part of her is appalled by this. It’s humiliating. It’s degrading. Her pride is urging her to get up, right now, and not look back. But a bigger part of her is more excited than she’s ever been, and she can’t quite muffle the tiny moan when she feels her own slickness coating the inside of her thighs. 

Scylla doesn’t say a word, just smiles as Raelle clumsily crawls towards her. The carpet is beginning to chafe Raelle’s knees, but she keeps going, holding Scylla’s gaze the entire time, a small part of her taking perverse joy in being defiant.

Scylla doesn’t seem to care. If anything, it amuses her, chuckling as Raelle finally crawls her way to her feet.

"You can do better. But we can work on that. Now, farmhand. Up. On your knees."

Raelle compiles without question, craning her head to look up at Scylla. At this proximity, the crop looks dangerous. Long and thin and unyielding.

"Mhmmm. You look good on your knees. It’s where you belong, wouldn’t you say?" 

Raelle’s not sure if she’s supposed to answer, but it’s all moot point, anyway; her brain screeches to a halt when Scylla starts to drag the flat side of the tassel all over her skin.

It’s almost soothing as Scylla slides the head of the leather crop across her body. It’s cool against her sticky skin as Scylla drags it across the curve of her hip, up the flat plane of her stomach. She turns the tassel on its side, rubbing it over the hard nub of Raelle’s nipple, smirking when it makes her squeak. 

"That’s it. Good girl." Scylla praises, running the crop slowly, teasingly down her body. Raelle bites back a groan. The pulse between her thighs has deepened into a dull, wet ache and it’s hard not to grind fruitlessly against the air.

She’s so turned on, but Scylla hasn’t even _touched_ her yet. She wants to maintain a scrap of dignity; but Scylla sees through the charade straight away. She leers, stroking the crop teasingly up and down the inside of Raelle’s thighs.

"Would you like something to soothe that ache, farmhand?"

Raelle’s face burns. Scylla’s talking to Raelle like she’s nothing; just some wayward girl to be used and discarded, and just the thought of _that_ makes Raelle groan and whimper. She can’t look Scylla in the eye as she spreads her legs wider, encouragingly, trying not to moan at the heavenly tease of the crop brushing just _so_ across the inside of the thighs.

The crop inches higher and higher. The anticipation makes Raelle shake. She's not going to beg, but she needs more. Fingers, tongue, crop, _anything_.

She gasps loudly when the crop’s tip grazes her cunt. It barely touched her; the tassel ghosted over Raelle’s slick skin more than anything else, but still, it’s too much and not enough all at once. Raelle groans in frustration, her eyes glued to the floor. She sounds pathetic, even to her own ears, whining as she juts her cunt out, chasing after the crop.

"Just say the word," Scylla says smugly from somewhere above her. 

"Please," Raelle begs. She flushes red with shame, but it’s not enough to stop her from bucking her hips, a silent plea for relief. "I need something, ma’am, just touch me, please."

Her voice trails off into a decadent moan as Scylla presses the flat of the tassel against her clit. The material is narrow but Raelle doesn’t give a damn; she grinds against it, enjoying the hard press of leather between her thighs. She’s glad she’s not looking at Scylla’s face; her body feels hot with arousal and embarrassment as she rubs against the material, trying and failing to ignore the squalid squelch of cunt sliding against leather. 

She must look quite a sight. Naked. On her knees, flushed and wanton, rocking against the crop, eager for its meagre friction.

"Enough," Scylla tuts. "Aren’t you a naughty girl? Grinding against my crop. Have you no shame? And look… you’ve got it all _wet._ "

Raelle glances up in alarm. The crop is right in front of her face, the flat tassel glistening in the dull light. Glistening and slick… with her own excitement.

"Go on then," Scylla says sternly. "Clean it."

 _Clean it?_ She can’t do that, surely she can’t, it’s demeaning and embarrassing but god, she is so, so wet and fuck it, it’s not like she didn’t surrender her dignity the minute Scylla walked into the room.

The first tentative lick makes Raelle groan. The whole tassel is soaked in her own slickness, Raelle is not sure how the hell she’s ever going to clean it all off. She flattens out her tongue, licking the crop with broad strokes. She cocks her head, licking the underside of the toy, desperate all of a sudden to do a good job.

The crop is musky and hot, a mixture of leather and her own pleasure. She laps at it, cleaning it thoroughly, narrowing her tongue to a point and licking at the tip. She squirms as she glides her tongue down the entirety of the tassel, again and again, until she can only taste the sharp tang of leather.

She licks at it for a little longer, enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done. She’s stirred from stupor from Scylla who clicks her tongue.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're enjoying your punishment. Suppose that’s not a surprise for a whore like you, but that will change, I assure you." 

Scylla strolls to the other side of the room, sitting on the bed primly. She tilts her head, smirking, cocking her finger at Raelle in a come-hither motion.

Raelle groans, crawling towards her. Raelle can’t stand to look at her, ashamed of her own excitement. God, was the room always so big? It feels like it takes an age as she shuffles forward, staring at the carpet underneath her palms, the dull ache between her thighs growing stronger with each passing second.

She comes to a stop by Scylla at the foot of the bed.

"Knees. Spread your legs. Good girl," Scylla says as Raelle complies. 

Scylla grazes the crop against the top of Raelle’s mound, stroking the short, soft downy hair framing the lips of her cunt. Raelle’s so fucking wet. If it wasn’t obvious before it sure is now; when Scylla pulls the crop away, a slick strand of her own wetness comes away with it.

"Mhmm, dirty again. Clean."

Raelle does, licking her excitement off the tip of the crop, embarrassed anew by her own desire. Above her, Scylla chuckles.

"You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you." It’s not a question, and they both know it. Raelle’s head droops. But before she can wallow, Scylla places the tip of the still-wet crop underneath Raelle’s chin and forces her to meet her gaze. "Get up on the bed."

Raelle staggers to her feet, stumbling before falling down onto the duvet with all the grace of a drunk elephant. She feels somehow that she should be more rebellious, more defiant, but right now, obeying Scylla seems as easy as breathing.

She settles on her stomach, near the foot of the bed, but not so far down her legs are hanging off. She shifts, trying to get comfortable. It’s hard to concentrate, not when she knows Scylla is looming right behind her, crop in hand. She needs a second to adjust, to collect her thoughts, so reaches for a pillow to rest her head on when—

The first whack of the crop makes Raelle cry out in shock and pain.

"Did I give you permission to grab a pillow?’’

"No. I’m sorry."

Another whack. This time on Raelle’s other buttock.

"I’m sorry, _what_?"

" _Ma’am._ I’m sorry, ma’am."

"Better," Scylla says pleasantly. She strokes Raelle’s ass with a gloved hand. "You are a pretty thing, all spread out for me like this. It’s almost a shame to mark you up, but you have been incredibly lax with your duties, farmhand. I can’t let that go unpunished. I _should_ whip you to an inch of your life but instead I will be merciful. Twenty lashes. One lash for every minute you were late today. That’s fair, isn’t it?"

Twenty minutes Raelle spent on her knees on the dining room floor, teasing an orgasm out of Scylla after lunch. It feels so far away now.

 _Thwack_. The crop comes down, harder than before. Raelle cries out, her fingers curling into the sheets.

"Yes, ma’am."

Another whap, in exactly the same place. Raelle moans. The impact of the crop is a sharper rebuke than any words.

"Yes, ma’am. I deserve the punishment, ma’am. I do."

"A good try, I suppose. But I want you to understand, truly understand, that you deserve this. That you’re a bad girl that I need to put right. So, you will count the number of lashes I administer. And after each one." Scylla pauses, as if relishing the moment. "You’re going to thank me."

 _Christ._ Raelle’s poor, slick cunt throbs at the words. Her head sinks into the mattress. She feels small. Smaller than she ever has been.

"Yes." Raelle’s heart is beating so fast. "Ma’am."

"Good. No moving, nor forgetting to count or thank me, otherwise I’ll start all over again. I’d say relax, but…" Scylla chuckles. "This is going to hurt." 

Raelle swallows hard, trying to ready herself, but her breaths are coming out in hard, shallow pants. She needs to focus on something, anything, other than the persistent ache between her thighs…

Raelle cries out in surprise as Scylla brings down the crop, hard, on her butt.

"One. Thank you, ma’am."

Raelle barely gets a second to draw breath before she hears a swish, and the crop comes down again.

"Two. Thank you, ma’am."

It’s not so bad, Raelle thinks. The smacks are still a shock and she cries out, in pain and anguish, every time. But she finds she enjoys those sweet, charged few seconds where she squirms needily against the sheets, anticipating the next blow.

But by the time the sixth blow comes, then the seventh, Raelle’s mind has gone fuzzy, and it’s hard, it’s so, so hard, to count each blow.

"Thank you, ma’am."

"Eight, farmhand, _eight_. You forgot to count. I’ll have to start all over again."

No, Raelle wants to say, choking back a sob. Her ass is stinging now, throbbing with a steady, fierce heat. She’s not sure she can endure it, to concentrate on each smack instead of losing herself to the sensations, the pain and pleasure blurring together like paint across an easel.

She could say the word. She could put a stop to this.

But...

"Concentrate," Scylla growls, digging her gloved fingers into Raelle’s ass.

"It hurts."

"It’s supposed to hurt. It’ll hurt until you’re obedient. You need to learn that. Now." She brings down the crop fiercely again, so hard Raelle cries out in choked alarm. "Again."

"One." She blinks back tears. "Thank you, ma’am."

And it hurts, god, it hurts, and Raelle has no choice but to feel it. She has to be lucid during her punishment.

"Two." Raelle’s head slumps. Her face feels wet. "Thank you ma’am."

The blows come hard but not fast, making Raelle endure the full brunt of the pain. And Scylla doesn’t always hit in the same spot, never letting Raelle get used to the rhythm. Sometimes, she cracks the crop over both butt cheeks. Others, she hits the underside, seemingly enjoying how it makes the soft skin of Raelle’s ass jiggle. The worst is when Scylla brings down the crop softly, almost lovingly, laughing knowingly as Raelle squirms underneath her.

It’s lewd and horrible, Raelle thinks. And they must be making a hell of a racket. Scylla has left the windows wide open. Raelle’s cries, the crack of the crop against skin, all that noise _must_ be reverberating across the whole farm. The animals might be disturbed from their sleep, listening to their farmhand being humiliated like this. Hell, _she’s_ so loud… _they’re_ so loud… surely the whole fucking town must know.

And fuck. Raelle moans at _that_ , her clit pulsing hard between her legs.

_Whap._

"Eight. Thank you, ma’am."

The ninth blow hurts harder than ever and Raelle can’t help but writhe a little, trying to wiggle away from the pain. God, her ass is raw. She can almost see it in her mind’s eye, blood vessels bursting, blooming a violent pink beneath her skin.

"No moving," Scylla admonishes coolly. She puts the tips of her leather-bound fingers on the small of Raelle’s back, pushing her ever so slightly further into the mattress. "Take your punishment."

Raelle heads slumps into the mattress but she obeys, stilling her movements. Even though it hurts. She feels so vulnerable underneath Scylla’s remorseless gaze, and even though she’s in pain, her cunt is still so slick and aching to be touched.

"You want to move again, don’t you?" There’s the whistle of the crop traveling through the air before it cracks, merciless, onto her skin. 

"Ten. Thank you, ma’am."

"You’re trying so hard not to grind your cunt against the sheets. Even though I’m punishing you, you’re still trying to get yourself off, like some common whore." 

_Whap._

"Eleven. Thank you, ma’am."

"It’s how you get yourself off. Like you did, the very first time. What was her name again? Mindy...is that right?"

Raelle nods, whimpering into the sheets. Why is Scylla making her relive this? Why is she making Raelle feel like she’s sixteen again, ashamed and needy as she humped herself to climax, the scent of Mindy’s perfume still clinging to her pillow?

"She left you high and dry, didn’t she? Well, not dry, exactly. But don’t worry. When I ride somebody, I don’t put them away _wet_."

Scylla sounds so severe, the heat of her words and the promise behind them making Raelle’s whole cunt clench. God, she hates to think what a mess she is making of the sheets…

_Whap._

"Twelve," her vision blurs with tears. Concentrate. Concentrate. "Thank you, ma’am."

"But I know something that Mindy doesn’t."

_Whap._

"Thirteen. Thank you, ma’am."

"I know what you want."

Another blow. The pain of it making Raelle writhe and groan. 

"I can see it by the way you move."

Another blow. Raelle half sobs, half moans into the mattress.

"I can taste it by the way you smell."

_Whap._

"I can hear it by the way you moan."

_Whap._

The pain is dreadful and divine. Raelle wants to arch up into Scylla’s hands.

"You’re a slut for punishment."

_Whap_

"Who deserves to be punished."

_Whap_

She does deserve it, she does. Raelle is nodding, words falling from her lips in a broken plea, _please, please, please_ …

"You’re a slut for punishment, Farmhand, and you _belong_ to _me_."

The final whap of the crop is brutal and domineering, leaving Raelle breathless, panting, and pitiful against the sheets.

"Twenty," Raelle rasps, hot tears dribbling down her face. "Thank you, ma’am."

Behind her, she hears Scylla sigh eagerly, and Raelle doesn’t have much time to consider how this must’ve felt for Scylla when she feels the crop sliding down Raelle’s spine. 

Scylla nudges her legs apart. "Spread your legs for me, slut."

Raelle does, spreading her shaking thighs. God, she’d take anything right now. Fingers, tongue, even the humiliating press of the crop between her legs...

 _Thwack_. Raelle yelps in genuine shock and pain. Scylla has slapped the inside of her thighs with the head of the crop. It’s only a short, sharp blow, but it stings something awful.

 _Thwack._ Another blow, this time to the other leg. Raelle whimpers, her fingers digging into her palms. She moves her thighs further apart, understanding in some primal way what Scylla wants.

"That’s it. Spread your legs for me as wide as you can. Good girl." Scylla rewards Raelle by brushing the head of her crop over her flushed, aching cunt. "Now you’re ready to be broken in."

She has no idea what Scylla means by that, no idea about anything except the wet drumbeat between her legs. Behind her, Scylla takes off her gloves, dropping them on the sheets next to Raelle’s head with a flourish. 

Raelle almost sobs when Scylla runs her hand down the curve of her spine. It’s the first time Scylla has touched her, _really_ touched her, this whole session. It feels like a reward, the stroke of Scylla’s fingers against Raelle’s flushed skin praise for her submission. It makes her desperate, prostrating herself on the bed, yearning for even the slightest scrap of affection, ready for anything, _anything_ , Scylla gives.

The unbuckling of Scylla’s belt and the sound of a zipper coming undone sounds so loud in the silent room. Raelle’s heart begins to patter in her chest as the bed dips. She turns her head quickly to the side, sneaking a look. Her breath catches in her throat. Scylla is on the bed behind her, cheeks flushed the prettiest red, jodhpurs tugged roughly down to her thighs, and—

"No looking," Scylla hisses, putting her hand on the nape of Raelle’s neck, pushing her head down hard into the mattress. Raelle groans into the sheets and obeys. The grip on the back of her neck relaxes her, in some odd, primal way; it feels reassuring to be held down like this, spread open in supplication for Scylla, always…

Raelle gasps when the flat, thick head of the dildo pushes gently inside her. It’s large, thick, and she feels the way her lips spread open to accommodate its girth. She whimpers, her breaths coming out in short, sharp pants. She’s trying not to panic, tries to trust Scylla implicitly, but it’s hard. The dildo feels big, bigger than anything they’ve ever tried and as it sinks into her, inch by inch, she’s afraid it might split her open and consume her, completely.

"Fuck," Scylla groans, as she continues to push into Raelle, boring the toy inside her relentlessly. She rocks her hips back gently before pushing in again, harder, and deeper than before. Raelle gasps into the mattress, confused. It has to stop soon, surely there can’t be much more of it…

"God, yes," Scylla’s voice is high, strangled, so different from her normal tone. She lies down, her whole weight resting on Raelle’s back, the strap-on buried to the hilt.

Raelle moans, both in pain and pleasure. Scylla is _everywhere_ ; on top of her, inside her, filling her nostrils with her sweaty, perfume-laden scent. It’s raw and intimate and deeply pleasurable, except for her ass, which throbs, still red and raw, as Scylla leans on her.

"So good," Scylla whispers, kissing the back of Raelle’s neck. She strokes Raelle’s sweaty hair before adjusting her hips, trying to get comfortable. Raelle closes her eyes, almost faint with anticipation.

"Ready?"

Raelle’s nod turns into a low, guttural cry when Scylla starts to fuck her with shallow strokes. It feels amazing; the thrusts hitting that spot deep inside her, making her toes curl. She wants to writhe and fuck herself on the toy but she can’t; she can’t do anything except lie there, pinned to the bed, crying out as Scylla gently fucks her into the mattress.

"You’re taking me so well," Scylla gasps, her voice thick with lust. "God, look at you. Taking it all, like a good girl." She kisses Raelle’s ear. "You are a good girl, aren’t you?"

Raelle nods, enjoying the praise, because she wants to be good, good for Scylla. She would beg for more, harder, faster, anything, but she can’t speak; her high, needy moans sounding foreign even to her own ears. 

Her cries seem to spur Scylla on; she smiles into Raelle’s neck, fucking into her without any finesse. She grabs Raelle’s hands, threading their fingers together as the tenor between them gets desperate; Scylla starts to pound into her, hard and fast, the bedframe beginning to creak underneath them.

The pain is still there, but it’s receded, a distant buzz in the back of Raelle’s mind. Scylla’s outfit is chafing her back, and her ass still throbs every time Scylla’s bare thighs rubs against it but it’s still good, still so, so good, as they rut on the bed, the slap of Scylla hips against her ass and their shared pants making Raelle cunt throb with need.

But while it’s amazing, it’s not enough and Raelle mewls brokenly into the sheets, squeezing her eyes shut. She needs… 

She _needs..._

"You want more, don’t you?"

Raelle nods. 

"What do you want?"

"T—touch me."

Scylla scrapes her teeth across the tip of Raelle’s ear. "Touch you _where_ , Farmhand?" 

"My clit, ma’am. Touch my clit. Please, please, please."

Raelle almost cries with dismay when Scylla gets off and pulls out, leaving her feeling empty and sore. Scylla doesn’t let her settle, pulling her ass up, presenting her cunt to the evening air as she enters her again in one brutal motion. 

Scylla sets a hard, fast rhythm. It hurts a little; every time Scylla thrusts forward, she presses into Raelle’s ass. But she doesn’t stop, fucking her so hard and fast—

Scylla grabs Raelle’s hair, pulling her head up. They lock eyes in the mirror. 

Raelle almost comes at the sight of them. She doesn’t recognize herself; the dazed, flushed expression, or the way her sweaty hair sticks to her forehead. On her hands and knees, her breasts wobbling with each deep thrust. 

Scylla too, is radiantly disheveled; she’s shucked off her coat, clad only in her white button-down shirt, pants bunched lewdly at her knees. Raelle can see her nipples, hard and pointed through her shirt, and she wishes she could put her mouth on them.

"Yeah," Scylla growls into Raelle’s neck. Her cheeks are flushed and red, bringing out the blue in her eyes. "Look at you. You’re glorious. From the second I saw you; I knew I had to have you. Remember? You were wearing those overalls, all spread out for me in the dirt. I wanted to pull you into my backseat so bad. But I knew it’d be sweeter to wait. Sweeter until you came to me, _gave_ yourself to me."

Scylla’s grip is like iron as she tugs Raelle's hair, pulling her head back and baring her neck. Raelle can’t move as Scylla fucks her, riding her so hard Raelle’s whole body shakes.

"And you have given yourself to me. And it’s been so, so good, Raelle, to break you in."

 _"Yes."_ Raelle arches her back. "Please, Scyl, I need it."

"Moan, then," Scylla demands harshly, panting into Raelle’s neck. "I want the whole town to hear what a whore you are."

Raelle does moan then, louder than she ever has before as they rut on all fours on the bed. Raelle’s moan turns into a strained gasp and Scylla finally, finally rubs her clit, swirling and grinding against the hard nub until…

The pleasure is sharp as she comes hard, clenching around the dildo, again and again until, the rapture cascading over her until she can’t scream anymore and the ocean below sucks her into darkness.

***

She’s unconscious for a long time.

When she does begin to stir she’s caught somewhere in the hazy, liminal space between consciousness and sleep. She stretches; enjoying the sunlight streaming through the open windows, warm and sated and happy.

 _I could stay in bed all day,_ Raelle thinks. _I could stay here for one thousand years and never want to leave._

She rolls, instinctively reaching out Scylla, when—

_Ow._

She winces, a shooting pain rocketing up her spine. She’s jolted from her haze, last night’s proceedings rushing back to her with the force and wonder of a tsunami. She shifts in the sheets that, faintly, still smell of their lovemaking. 

Even if she couldn’t remember, the evidence of what transpired last night is all over Raelle’s body; from her throat, to her hips, to the inside of her thighs and most of all, her sore ass. She’s even throbbing _inside_ ; the dildo leaving her wet, aching and sore. 

Scylla didn’t go easy on her. At all.

And it had been utterly worth it.

Raelle smiles. She doesn’t feel dirty, or ashamed, or even sheepish. She’s euphoric. She had made Scylla’s deepest fantasy come true. They had shared an experience together, something real. Something tangible. They were intimate in a way that cut to the heart of them both. 

Surely last night had to mean something. Raelle knows, deep down, that it had to, that it _must._

Surely she isn’t _just_ the farmhand anymore?

"Hey," Scylla says gently from beside her. "Good morning."

Raelle is naked, but Scylla is wearing a silk nightgown. Despite Raelle being the one who was fucked into oblivion, it’s Scylla who looks bruised and battered. Her hair is tousled and her lips pink—like she managed to almost, but not quite, rub off all of last night’s lipstick—and her eyes droop, as if she didn’t get a lick of sleep.

She’s still gorgeous, though, all the same.

Raelle pulls her in for a soft kiss. "Morning beautiful."

Scylla ducks her head. For some reason, she can’t meet Raelle’s gaze. "I got some cream. For your…" she gestures. "Do you want to put it on, or…"

"You do it." Raelle rolls onto her stomach, grinning as she does so, "you marked me up, you fix me up."

"Of course."

Her ass is still red and raw but the cream soothes the ache; Scylla rubs into Raelle’s skin, softly, reverently, and by the time she’s finished Raelle is almost lulled back into sleep.

"Do you need anything else? I made breakfast. ‘Made’ may be a slight exaggeration, but still. I wanted to be here when you woke up, so I got you something before."

"Yum," Raelle suddenly finds she’s ravenous. She sits up, trying to put as little pressure on her ass as Scylla hands her the bowl of cereal.

 _Cap'n Crunch._ Of course.

"Sorry, it’s a bit soggy."

"It’s _delicious_ ," Raelle says. She’s almost finished within minutes, slowing only when she notices the stricken expression on Scylla’s face.

"Scylla." She puts the bowl down. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," Scylla says brightly, flashing a winsome smile, the kind that normally makes Raelle’s heart skip a beat. Except something is not right; her grin is too wide and nothing can hide the anxious wobble of her lips.

"Scylla. Talk to me." She takes Scylla’s hands. "What’s wrong. Tell me. _Please_."

"Raelle," and just like that, Scylla’s face crumbles. She’s on the verge of tears.

"Oh god, I am so sorry."

"What? Why?"

"I hurt you. I called you… horrible things. You shouldn’t have to put up with that. You shouldn’t have to be treated like that, Raelle. I didn’t mean any of it, those words, they were just…"

"Scyl!” She cups Scylla’s cheek. “What brought this on?”

“You can’t see yourself, Raelle. You’re marked up. Everywhere. I did that. I hurt you and made you cry,” she sounds miserable. “I’m scared I went too far.”

“You didn’t. You have to trust me too, okay. If you did, I would have said so, I swear. Nothing you did last night was out of bounds, or not wanted, okay? I promise. It was just a game. A fun, sexy game. And we like games, right?" Raelle strokes Scylla’s chin . "You have nothing to apologize for."

"I hurt you, Raelle. I don’t want to be the sort of person who hurts the person they… You don’t haven’t to tolerate my tastes because the truth is, I’m the one who is screwed up. And I don’t ever want to hurt you, because…" 

"No. None of that, okay? We agreed to this. Together. And anyway, if _you’re_ the screwed up one, then I’m really worried about the rest of us…"

Scylla chuckles. It’s a choked, reluctant laugh, heavy with tears. Raelle strokes the dampness from her cheeks.

"Thank you for sharing that with me. For trusting me. It was special. And just in case you noticed, I had a _really_ good time."

"Yeah, I was a little surprised when you blacked out."

"Hell yeah, I did. Blacked out. Wow. Did, uh, anyone ever tell you, _Ms. Ramshorn,_ that you’re kinda a stud?"

"Raelle!" She’s blushing now. "Stop."

"Hey. I just tell the truth." Raelle takes Scylla’s hand and plays with the tips of her fingers. "Do you have to go to work?"

"No. I took the day off."

"So I have you for a whole day?"

"Yeah, if you want me."

"Always."

Raelle settles into her sheets, drawing Scylla into her embrace, cocooning themselves in the blanket. 

She’s so warm and soft against Raelle’s skin. Raelle could get used to this, spending long hours buried in the blankets, enjoying the soft press of their bodies. She wants nothing more than to hold Scylla, and be held in return, but Raelle Collar is a giver who was raised with good, southern values.

"Scyl… I know I blacked out for a good few hours there, but I seem to remember last night was a little one sided. Would you like me to…"

"No. Maybe later, but right now, I just… want to stay like this."

"Yeah. I’d like that too."

They’re silent for a few moments, Raelle enjoying the listening to the rhythmic sounds of Scylla’s breathing. She thinks the other woman might be drifting off to sleep when—

"Raelle. That show you appeared on, the one with Abigail’s family. Is that on Netflix?"

After everything that’s transpired between them, Raelle didn’t think she could be scandalized by anything anymore, but here she is, shocked by the words coming out of Scylla’s Ramshorn’s mouth.

"You want to watch the _Bellweather Season_ now?"

"Yeah. I think it would be fun. Let’s start with the one where you’re the star."

"Scylla, I swear I was in two _scenes_ —"

"Then let’s start with that one," Scylla smiles sweetly. "Please?"

As if Raelle could ever deny her anything. She pads over to Scylla’s desk. She left her laptop in the second drawer. In fact, she’s moved most of her stuff into Scylla’s room, her old bedroom abandoned. 

She shuffles back in the bed; it’s warm out, but she’s still naked. She probably looks ridiculous, running on her tiptoes holding her ancient laptop. Scylla thinks so, giggling as Raelle dives under the covers, careful not to land on her ass, rising up for air and tugging Scylla close.

Scylla rests her head against Raelle’s chest. Raelle nuzzles her hair, breathing her in. She smells of burned ash and earth and something else, something indescribably Scylla.

More and more, though, she smells like home.

***

She thinks it’s going to rain.

Raelle slips her hands in the pockets of her overalls and strolls across the open field. Even though she’s been here for nigh on twelve weeks, she’s still struck by the farm’s serenity, with its wide open green spaces and thick forests that surround its borders. If Raelle strains her neck, she can see the road leading out of the residence; past the giant oak trees and down the lane which heads into the town. 

Still, as pretty as it is, Raelle takes real pride in how the farm has changed under her care. But although she’s done a lot, there’s still so much more she could do. Every night as she prepares dinner, she daydreams about how much more she could do with this place, if only she had the time to do it.

Scylla doesn’t have the mind for it; she’s too focussed on her work and doesn’t have the patience to deal with the nitty gritty of actually caring for a property. The Ramshorn residence has so much potential. Raelle knows it.

Except.

She and Scylla haven’t spoken much about the status of their relationship. Scylla seems content to keep things as they are, especially since the two of them have fallen into an easy, steady routine. Scylla will remain Raelle’s boss. And Raelle will continue to be paid her (pretty generous) wage. 

When she told Abigail and Tally she was definitely staying past the summer, they seemed happy for her. Abigail said she should consider lucky "to be a hot gentlewoman’s sex toy" and while they all laughed at that, Raelle couldn’t rid herself of the queasy feeling at the bottom of her stomach for the rest of the day.

It all feels a bit... transactional.

She knows Scylla cares about her, she can see it in the little things; in her eyes, the small, gentle touches, the way she says so much without saying anything at all. 

But a part of Raelle longs for more. If she’s more than a summer fling, then what is she, exactly? More than a fuck buddy, less than a lover? Or more than a lover, but less than a girlfriend? 

And she’s stopped trying to bring the topic up with Scylla, who just smiles that coquettish grin of hers and kisses the frown off Raelle’s face.

Sometimes, Raelle wished she wasn’t _such_ a slut when it came to Scylla.

She sighs, running a hair through her lank hair. It’s late afternoon, the horses have been returned to the stable, and she's spent the rest of the afternoon doing upkeep around the property. She’s tired and a little filthy. She needs a shower. And maybe Scylla can join her. And maybe afterwards they can go to the bedroom… 

A flash of blue catches Raelle’s gaze. She crouches down. It’s a small mayflower bush, twining its way through a small cluster of rocks. Raelle’s surprised; it’s too late in the season for it to be blooming.

It's a pretty cobalt blue. It reminds her of Scylla’s eyes. Not as striking, of course, but lovely still. Raelle picks a few flowers and tucks them into her pocket, hoping the gift will bring a broad smile to Scylla’s face. 

She starts to quicken her pace. It’s humid and sticky as Raelle makes her way across the meadow. When she glances up, she sees clouds loom ominously overheard, dark and heavy with the promise of rain.

It’s going to pour, Raelle thinks... Not just rain. Pour.

She hears the raised voices before she sees anything.

"I don’t want to stand by while you’re making a massive mistake!"

"You don’t have to stand by anything. You can leave. In fact, that would be a very good idea. Leave. And while you’re at it, stop spooking Raelle."

"I don’t care about her. I care about what you’re doing."

"Hey," Raelle snaps, breaking out into a run. Porter is standing on the porch while Scylla is by the door. "Hey!"

"Raelle!" Scylla calls out urgently. "It’s fine. You don’t need to be a part of this."

Raelle ignores her. She can’t help it. She’s shaking with rage just looking at Porter, with his stupid pout on his stupid, bovine face. 

"Hey," she says again, rounding on Porter who is still standing on the porch, not backing down an inch. "Get the hell away from my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Porter sneers. He looks unkempt; his jacket is rumpled and his normally perfectly coiffed hair is a tangled mess. "I can’t believe this." He turns to Scylla. "You really have her fooled, don’t you?"

"Porter," Scylla warns. "Get away from her."

"Hey asshole, you heard her. Back off."

"I just thought you were a mouthy brat, Raelle, I didn’t realize you are also an idiot. God, don’t you see? She’s using you. Just like she used all the others."

Something twists in Raelle’s stomach. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Scylla isn’t the girlfriend type. We’re just distractions. Something to fill the void between the next research paper. She’ll use you up and spit you out and then when she’s sick of you, she will move on. The sooner you realize that, the happier you’ll be."

"You know something," Raelle sneers. "The whole scorned ex act is a little sad. You had a onetime thing, and now it’s over. Get over it."

"A onetime thing? Is that what she told you? Well, well, well."

"Porter." Scylla looks apprehensive now. "Leave."

"Hate to break this to you, Raelle, but Scylla’s always had a complicated relationship with the truth. Because it wasn’t a onetime thing. In fact, I’ve lost count of how many… _things_ … we’ve had over the years."

His words are like a blow. Raelle shakes her head, not believing, not comprehending. "What are you talking about?"

"Porter—"

"She has a right to know, doesn’t she? Who you really are?" He looks back at Raelle, eyes sharp as a blade. "I know you think you know Scylla, but you don’t. Not like I do. I was there for her when her parents died, and I’ve been there for her ever since, even when she said she didn’t want me. Because that’s what you do when you care about someone. When you—"

"People change, Porter," Scylla interrupts, taking a few steps towards them. Raelle has never heard her voice sound so cold. "I’ve changed. So, no, you don’t know who I am."

"People change? Are you joking? You haven’t changed at all. You _can’t_ change. And that’s okay. I don’t want anymore than what you can give. But do you think she’s the same? You think some blow-in from Boston will ever accept you?"

 _"She,"_ Raelle snaps. "Is standing right here. And why don’t you shut your mouth, Porter."

"You think Scylla is going to play house with you, Raelle? You really think she is going to be your girlfriend? Look, you may think I’m a jackass, but I told Scylla last week the kinder thing would be to let you go—"

"You saw him last week?" Raelle asks Scylla coldly.

"Yes, and I told him if I ever saw him again I’d throw him off a roof."

"I’m trying to do you a favor, Scylla."

"You are not listening to me. You never listen to me, Porter, and I am sick of it. I swear to God, if you ever come back here again, I will share that secret you don’t want anyone to know. I will tell the whole town. I will nail it to the watchtower so everyone can read all about it and have a good laugh. For the last time; Get out of my life. And stay out."

Porter blanches, his face falling open in shock, like he can’t believe the words what he just heard. He gapes for a moment, before his expression turns hard.

"Fine. Whatever. I’m done," he sneers at Raelle. "You can have her. Just don’t come crying to me when it all goes south."

He turns on his heel and storms off, slamming the door of his truck so loud the hinges creak, speeding away in a swirl of pebbles and exhaust.

Not that Raelle cares about that. Not when Raelle cares about anything, except the anger surging through her veins.

"Raelle. Wait."

"Get away from me," Raelle snarls. Her eyes are already blurring with tears. She strides away from Scylla, taking the stairs two at-a-time, relying on instinct as she bolts towards their—no, _Scylla’s_ —room.

Before she knows it, she’s gathering her things, her rage like a nasty, cavernous hole in her chest.

Porter’s words reverberate in her head. If even half of what he said is true, Scylla has been lying to her. 

Using her.

"Raelle," Scylla is in the room now, panting. She looks pale. "Wait, what are you doing?"

Raelle shoves a handful of her clothes into her duffel bag. "Leaving."

"What? Please don’t. Please don’t listen to him, okay, he just wants to hurt you. 

"He’s not the one who hurt me, Scylla. When were you going to tell me that he visited?"

"I didn’t think it warranted mentioning. Nothing happened besides me telling him to get lost."

"Yeah, well, he seems to think he’ll be welcomed back soon enough. And maybe he’s right. He seems to know you better than anyone."

"He doesn’t know me at all, Raelle. He knows the sixteen-year-old version of me. That’s who he thinks he knows. But I’m not that angry, broken person anymore."

"Yeah well, you could have fooled me," Raelle snaps, an ugly, awful part of her enjoying how her words make Scylla flinch. "And what about that shit about you and Porter being more than a onetime thing? You lied to me, Scyl. Why would you lie to me?"

"Because I didn’t think… I didn’t want to bring it up. He’s in my past, Raelle."

"No, he’s not. He still thinks he has a chance with you. God. You’re the smartest person I have ever met. Why would you go back to that asshole?"

"Because I was _lonely_ , Raelle," Scylla cries. Outside, a crack of lightning momentarily casts the bedroom in an eerie, white glow. "And he was just _there…_ and available… and I didn’t think I could do much better."

"Why don’t you leave? You’re not stuck here, Scylla. You could go anywhere in the world, it’s not like money is an object."

"I _can’t_ go, Raelle," Scylla hollers. Outside, the rain begins to pour, tumbling from the sky like sheets of solid steel. "Don’t you see that? After my parents died, there was nothing left but me. And my mother’s work. And this place. This is their legacy. Please. Just... put the duffel bag down. Stay with me. Please."

"And that other shit he said," Raelle snarls. Porter’s words are swirling around in her head, making her angrier and angrier by the second. "How many more of us are there? Do you take a new farmhand every year? Is that your kink? Fucking the help?"

"What?" Scylla looks offended, which only seems to stoke the fire raging in Raelle’s chest. "I dated a few people in Charlotte. It never stuck. And as for that other thing, no, Raelle. I don’t go out of my way to _fuck the help_. It’s only been you. It’s only ever been you."

"I’m not sure about that. What are you always saying? That this is all a game? Well, it’s not a game to me, Scylla. My feelings for you are not a game."

"And this is not a game to me either." Scylla is almost yelling, struggling to have her voice heard over the cacophony outside. "Raelle, you know I care about you! I have shared things with you, things that I have never shared with _anybody_ else. And, I know I’m not very good with—"

"Am I your girlfriend, Scylla?"

Scylla blanches. "What?" she asks softly, so softly Raelle has to strain to hear her.

"You heard me," Raelle swears her heart is pounding in her ears. "Am I your girlfriend?"

"Why do we need to put a label on it? Can’t we just go on the way we always have? Just you and me, Raelle, that’s all we need."

"Speak for yourself. I can’t believe I was so _stupid_ to think there was something here. God, I’m an idiot. Porter’s right. You don’t change. You play it safe. It’s surviving, Scyl. Because you’re too afraid to do anything else. And I need more than that. I need more than what you can give."

"No!"

She reaches for Raelle, but she steps away, scared that Scylla’s touch will undo her resolve. She can’t think, can barely speak, trembling with a rage and sadness so deep it scares her. She shoves the rest of her belongings in her duffel bag. If she’s forgotten something, who cares. Right now she’d rather leave with just the clothes on her back than stay a second longer with this… beautiful charlatan.

"Raelle, _please._ Don’t go."

"Good luck with your next farmhand, _ma’am_ ," Raelle spits the last word out like a curse. "I’m sure they’ll be a great fuck."

She’s soaked the second she steps outside. The rain is torrential, pouring down her face, sneaking into her mouth and into her eyes and every other crevice of her body. She’s barely out of the house before she’s drenched to the bone. But she’s grateful; the swirling, driving wind almost muffles Scylla’s sobs. 

She gets into Bertie, sodden, miserable and numb. She grips the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turn white, ignoring the traitorous urge to turn around and take Scylla into her arms and kiss her until they’re both breathless.

But she can’t. Raelle’s never been the type to look back. 

So she does what she always does.

She sticks the keys in the ignition and leaves.

***

"Abigail, I don’t want _Doritos_."

"More for me then," her friend says, settling next to Raelle with a satisfied sigh. 

Raelle flops back onto the bed, still sore and miserable. Forty hours. It took less than forty hours to get from North Carolina to home. She barely stopped, living on a diet of gas station _Hot Pockets_ and energy drinks. 

She knew, in that vague part of her mind not riven with anguish, that she was being incredibly reckless. But she didn’t care. She just needed to leave, she tells herself. It doesn’t matter that she didn’t give Scylla a chance to explain herself. Or that she didn’t say goodbye to the horses, or chickens, or the rest of the residence that she had mistakenly thought could one day be her home.

The speed of the trip home didn’t take away the sorrow. She hadn’t just cried, she had wept, in a way she had not done since her mother died. But as awful and hard as it has been, deep down Raelle knows she didn’t have a choice. She made the right decision. 

It may seem impossible now. But she needs to forget Scylla Ramshorn.

They’re in Raelle room, which is a glorified basement in her father’s house. Neither Tally nor Abigail have left her side for the last two days, and while Raelle appreciates the sentiment, it’s beginning to drive her up the wall. 

"We never really did sleepovers, did we? Glory and I were always at each other's house growing up” Tally says. 

Abigail takes a delicate bite of a _Dorito_. "Was that before or after you found out she could brew her own alcohol?"

It’s the sort of joke Raelle that would normally make Raelle laugh, but she can barely muster a smile.

"Hey Tal," Raelle says, frowning as she sees Tally sorting through the clothes in her duffel bag. "You really don’t have to do that."

"I’m helping. You haven’t touched this and you’ve been home for days. How about I take your washing? So you can relax and recuperate."

"I’m not an invalid. I just got dumped, that’s all."

"Well, technically _you_ dumped her," Abigail says drolly, flicking through the Netflix catalogue. "See anything you like?"

"Thanks, Abigail," Raelle snaps. "And I don’t care what we watch. Just as long as it isn’t…"

"There’s a new episode of the _Bellweather Season_?"

"No." Raelle practically snarls, too angry to care when Abigail cocks a perplexed eyebrow at her. "And Tally, what the hell are you doing?"

"I found a flower in here. Is this yours?"

Raelle’s stomach turns. She thinks she might be sick. It’s the mayflower she picked on the night she left the Ramshorn residence. It’s crumpled and squished from being in Raelle’s pocket for days. But it’s just as beautiful as it was the first time she laid eyes on it during those precious few moments before her whole life went to shit.

"Was that for Scylla?" Abigail asks.

"Yes. And I know, okay, you don’t have to tell me, Abigail, that it was stupid to want to give my boss a flower."

"Well, I think it’s sweet," Tally says tentatively. 

"It’s not sweet, Tally. It was stupid. I was stupid for thinking Scylla could ever care for me."

"It’s not stupid, Raelle," Tally comes to sit by her on the bed, eyes wide and beseeching. "Have you thought about calling her?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you miss her."

"She’s dead to me. What, don’t look so shocked, Tal. She lied. Repeatedly. And the only reason she kept me around is because she was lonely. She’s just a sad, lonely, emotionally crippled person."

"I dunno, Raelle, honestly, I wouldn’t bother telling my sidepiece about my childhood. Or share a bed with him. Or go on picnics or any other coupley-shit that you said you guys did." 

"Abigail, no offense, but you are the last person I am going to take relationship advice from... I mean, have you told Adil he’s _your_ sidepiece? Because he looks at you like you’re getting married. And Tally, I know what you’re going to say, but not everyone believes in love and fairytales. I gave Scylla a chance. And she couldn’t even call me her girlfriend. She couldn’t even give me _that_. She’s not going to change, and… it’s unfair of me to even ask that of her. I mean, what? Am I supposed to go down there and be her farmhand forever?"

"That doesn’t sound too bad," Tally says softly.

"Yeah, well it does to me. Anyway, there’s no point talking about her anymore." She swallows hard, her words getting stuck in her throat. "I just want to forget about her, guys. Can you just… help me with that? Please."

"Of course," Abigail says, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Of course we can."

***

The light streams through her window, prickling her eyes and making her groan. Her head is aching and there’s a relentless throb behind her eyelids. She reaches across the warm sheets, seeking the comfort of Scylla’s arms.

"Morning, beautiful."

"I’m flattered, Collar. But buy me a drink first."

Raelle jerks awake, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her mind scrambling to catch up. But when Abigail rolls over, a cheshire grin on her face, it all falls into place.

_Oh._

"Hey,” Raelle averts her eyes, embarrassed. “Sorry about that."

"That’s okay,” Abigail yawns, stretching. “Old habits die hard, I see. Bit early for you to be up."

Raelle rubs her face, still groggy. She checks the clock on her wall.

6:45am

"Yeah well," she slumps back onto her bed. Now that she is conscious, she realizes she’s sandwiched snugly between Abigail and Tally in the bed. "I used to get up early at the residence. So." She sighs wearily, burying her face into the mattress, listening to the staccato chirp of the birds outside. "Hey, Abs? I’m sorry for what I said last night. About Adil."

"It’s okay. You get bitchy when you’re tired." Abigail’s voice drops. "And when your heart’s broken."

"Yeah," Raelle’s heart constricts in her chest and she doesn’t bother to try and stop her tears. "Fuck. I think I might still really like her, Abigail."

"I know. And honestly… I think she cares for you too."

Raelle chokes back a sob, trying not to wallow in the cavernous hole of grief that’s threatening to engulf her. She was so sure she did the right thing, fueled by a righteous kind of anger she hasn’t felt in years. But now, sandwiched between the two girls she’s come to think of as her sisters, she feels lonelier than she ever has before.

God, what has she done?

"Raelle?" Her Dad has opened the door, calling down to them in his gruff, gravelly voice. "Rae? You better get up here."

"Pop. We’re sleeping."

"C’mon kid. You’re gonna wanna see this."

"Get me coffee," Abigail mumbles.

"You got it," Raelle groans. She drags herself upstairs, already thinking of how good it's going to feel to return to bed. "Dad, I told you that I need a few days off before going back to the—"

Her heart stops.

There in the kitchen, sitting at her table as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, is her father, pouring a cup of coffee for a rumpled-looking Bryon. And sitting behind him, looking small and fragile in the early morning light, is Scylla.

_Scylla._

"What…" Raelle’s awake now. She rubs her face again, not daring to trust her own eyes, not daring to hope that this could be real. 

"Scylla and Bryon took the redeye. Got in just under an hour ago. Thought I’d show them some hospitality and drive them from the airport myself." Her father gestures towards the coffee. "Want a mug?"

Raelle gapes. She can’t take her eyes off Scylla. "I don’t understand."

"Girls," her dad calls down the stairs. "Girls, you better get up here too. Girls!"

"Mr. Collar, I respect you, but I don’t get up before eight unless it’s an emergency," Tally says lethargically, emerging from the basement with Abigail right on her heels. "I need my sleep and I can’t have caffeine anymore because it gives me the shakes, and… oh."

"Hey, uh, I know it’s early, but how about we all give Byron here a little tour of the place? I got a great shed. You like cars, Byron?"

"Uh, sure, I mean, I like riding in them," Byron says with a smile that’s not fooling anyone. But he lets Abigail and Tally shepard him down the hall. Her sisters both looked as shocked as Raelle feels as they leave the room.

Not that Raelle is even looking at them. There is only one person she has eyes for.

"Scyl. What are you doing here? How… how do you even know where I live?"

"I asked Anacostia for a copy of your employment details and called your dad. He's listed as your next of kin. I am very grateful he decided to help me." She smiles tremulously, fidgeting as she stands up, as if not sure whether to sit down again or broach the distance between them. Raelle's heart aches at the sight of her, pretty despite her obvious fatigue and the jacket that seems to engulf her small frame. "He seemed to know all about me."

"He doesn’t know everything," Raelle says, her voice colder than she means it. She feels a stab of guilt when Scylla’s face falls. "Sorry, I’m just shocked. How did you get here?"

"I took a flight."

"A flight? Scyl, you're scared of flying!"

"Turns out I discovered something else that scares me more." She clears her throat. "Can we go somewhere?"

***

They don’t go far.

Raelle takes Scylla to her backyard. It's a small, warm space with a few overgrown flower beds, a tiny thatch of grass and a dark brown brick wall that separates the garden from the alleyway. There isn’t much to see, except the giant red maple tree situated in the far left corner. She used to sit at the base of the trunk with Tally and Abigail, smoking and drinking and whiling away the hours.

The backyard isn’t large, but they walk in uneasy silence for a few moments. Raelle can sense that Scylla is nervous, she can tell by the unsteadiness of her gait, but she waits. It’s so good to see her. Raelle can’t stop looking, running her eyes greedily over Scylla's face. But she's still cautious. Her heart feels like an open bruise in her chest.

“So,” Scylla starts eventually. “I need to tell you the truth. You were right, I did lie to you. I lied, and I was evasive and I tried to stop myself from falling for you. Because I was scared. Because I’ve been scared for so long…”

“Scyl…”

“And I want to tell you some other truths.”

“Well, wait—”

“Just, um, don’t say anything I need to get this out of me before I freak out and shut down and run away. I like you, okay. I have feelings for you and they’re not something I am used to having, not something I am used to dealing with. I’m a dodger. It’s what I do. My whole life it’s just been easier to dodge attachments. It was easier to stay in the residence and live my life. I thought that was how I could truly honor my parents. And I believed I was happy. And maybe I was in my own quiet way. And then you came along, and now I don’t know how I can live my quiet life anymore. And I tried, Raelle, I really did. I didn’t come to find you straight away because I thought my life before you was enough. But… I came to realize.” She blinked back tears. “That my home isn’t a home without you in it.”

“Scylla…”

“I still… haven’t learned to get past this, but I’m trying. Maybe I’m kind of broken, and maybe you deserve better. And I realize I probably screwed up and you don’t want to be my girlfriend—”

And Raelle is kissing her then because if she doesn’t do it right this second, she thinks she might die. Scylla freezes as Raelle cups her face, caught like a rabbit in oncoming traffic. But Raelle doesn’t care, pressing their mouths together sweetly, unhurriedly, until Scylla finally relaxes and lets herself be kissed.

They stay for a long time, kissing soft and slow until a warmth has spread to every inch of Raelle’s body. She pulls back and rests their foreheads together, looking into Scylla’s eyes, those gorgeous eyes, as bright as starlight. 

“I’m in this with you. We’re going to figure it out together. Whoever you are, whoever you were, I’m in.” Raelle grins. She’s light with joy. “That’s what girlfriends are for, right?”

“Girlfriends?”

“Yeah. Girlfriends.”

***

Trust Abigail and Tally to throw such a thoughtful going away party at such short notice

Her dad’s living room, a small space at the best of times, is filled to the brim with her friends from community college and her former colleagues from her dad’s shop. The music is blasting loudly and everyone seems in a good mood despite being packed into the small space. In the center of the room there is a giant bowl of punch, made by Scylla, and on the trestle table there are canapes, a combined effort by Byron and Tally. Abigail organized the decorations.

Unfortunately.

“Abigail,” Raelle hisses under her breath, appalled. She points at her drink. “Why are all the straws shaped like vaginas? My father is here!”

“Don’t you worry about Mr. Collar. Your dad is a man of taste and refinement. And anyway, I think it gets into the spirit of the whole occasion. ‘Cause we know you’ll be licking one of these for real when you… what was it again? _Get to work.”_

 _“Abigail,_ ” Raelle snaps, scandalized. She glances over at Bryon, who is standing against the door nearby. She’s hoping he didn’t hear the obvious innuendo. Raelle doubts he did, though, since he seems distracted by something on the other side of the room.

“What?” Abigail smirks as Raelle turns her attention back to her. “I’m just saying if someone that attractive wanted _me_ to be their sex slave, I would have said goodbye to y’all a lot sooner.”

“And on that note, I think I’ll get drinks,” Henry says. He’s Tally’s new boyfriend, a tall, bespectacled, foppish-looking man with crinkled brown hair and the kind of face people tend to trust. He kisses Tally chastely, blushing a bit and determinedly not looking at Raelle and Abigail as he heads towards the punch bowl.

“I think Abigail broke Henry.”

“Don’t worry,” Tally winks. “He’s not as innocent as he seems.”

“Excuse me,” Bryon says quickly, butting into the conversation. His eyes are as wide as saucers. “Who is _that?_ ”

Raelle follows his gaze and sees Gerrit on the other side of the room, surrounded as usual by a gaggle of admirers.

“Oh, that’s Gerrit,” Raelle says. “He’s Tally’s ex.”

“It was a mutual thing, no hard feelings. In fact,” Tally’s grin is broad and dimpled, “I invited him here because I wanted him to meet new people. He just came out as bi and I thought maybe someone could help him navigate those waters…”

“Oh, uh,” Bryon gapes but recovers in record time, adjusting his v-neck sweater and running a hand through his hair. “Raelle, do you mind if I just... I mean, if he needs assistance… it would be remiss of me...”

“Ew,” Raelle gently shoves him in Gerrit’s direction. “Just go already, I can see the drool.”

They grin as they watch Byron bounds over to Gerrit, who drops what he’s doing and smiles broadly back.

“I am sensing serious gay chemistry over there. God, are we gonna be visiting you _and_ Gerrit down in the sticks? 

Raelle heart leaps. “You really are gonna visit? You’re not mad…”

“Of course we’re not. I have my private jet at the ready. We’ll visit so much you’ll get sick of us.”

“We could never be mad at you for following your heart. Love is beautiful after all,” Tally squeezes Raelle’s hand. “Who are we to get in the way of it…”

“Tally, I never said anything about love…”

“Oh my god, she’s blushing. Oh shitbird, you got it bad…”

“Shut up. Shut. Up. Both of you. You’re terrible, you know that?” Raelle grins, pulling her best friends into a hug. She’s doing the right thing, but she’ll miss them, all the same.

A few hours into the festivities Raelle is making her way through the crowd of people, past her father, Tally and Henry, Abigail and Adil and Byron and Gerrit, who can’t seem to take their eyes off each other. Everyone is here…

Except the one person she wants the most...

She finds her in the backyard, sitting at the trunk of the maple tree, chewing her lip and looking out wistfully over the garden.

“Guess what,” Raelle grins, taking a seat next to her. “I think you and I will be taking Bertie back home by ourselves. Byron is chatting up Tally’s ex. It’s going well, I doubt we’ll see him resurface for days.”

“Good for Byron. He deserves to be happy. Especially since I was not very pleasant on the plane ride here.”

Byron had told her. Scylla remains deathly afraid of flying, and didn’t take too well to the flight attendants who kept asking her if she was alright or if she wanted another packet of peanuts.

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for you coming up here. That took courage.”

“Yeah well,” Scylla reaches over and takes Raelle’s hand. “It was worth it.”

“That it was,” Raelle says, draping her arm over Scylla’s shoulders. “Not that I want to kill the mood or anything, but I’ve been meaning to ask you… what was Porter’s secret? The one you threatened him with?”

Scylla lips curl in disgust. “Oh. That. I just reminded him that I know he often shoots his load really quickly and he _always_ cries when he comes.”

“Oh. Gross.”

“Yeah. Last I heard he went to Nashville, so he’s someone else’s problem.”

“I’m glad.” Raelle looks closely at Scylla’s wan face. “What are you doing out here alone? We miss you inside.”

“It’s your party, I don’t want to crash it.”

“You could never,” Raelle squeezes Scylla's hand, marveling yet again how beautifully the light catches the curve of her cheeks. "What’s wrong?"

"I'm just worried. Are you sure you want to come back with me? You have such a full and wonderful life here, and I would never want to deny you that…"

"My life is only full when it's with you. You haven't noticed that yet?" Raelle smiles, kissing each knuckle on Scylla's hand slowly, reverently. "You know I'll go back with you. As long as…"

"What, Raelle? What?"

Raelle grins, brushing her lips against Scylla’s ear.

"I'll come back and stay with you, always. On one condition."

"Anything."

"I still get to call you ma'am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help it. It's the holidays, who doesn't want a happy ending?
> 
> First of all, thank you to majesdane, who has given me such joy over many years. I have always admired your work greatly and I wanted to do something special for someone whose stories I have always loved. This is my ode to you - I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Second of all, thank you SO MUCH to 99bad_habits for beta-ing this story, all 43 thousand words of it! Thank you so much for your support, your guidance (NO AUDI!) and your encouragement. I could not have done whit without you. I would have freaked out and posted something quite different without you being there, cheering me on. You're an absolute gem and this fandom is lucky to have you, and I am also happy to have you as my fren!
> 
> Last but never least, thank you to my wife. I promise I will never throw myself into a story like this again - the time pressure meant I couldn't be the wife you always needed, and I am sorry about that. Thank you for supporting me, and indulging me and just generally being the best person in my life. Not to be sappy on main, but you're amazing.
> 
> Last last last; thank you to everyone who made it this far! If you have, please leave a kudos or review. Don't make me send Gentlewoman Scylla after you!


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